The lobby hustles and bustles, a storm of movement. A chaotic, colourful mix of humans, superhumans, aliens, and whatever in-between forms exist today, all converging in the space like a swirling, noisy storm. Some hover inches off the ground, wings fluttering. Others stride purposefully, their limbs moving in ways that defy gravity or anatomy.
And yet, despite all this movement, all this life, all this energy... the first thing you notice is the smell.
Burnt coffee and exhaustion. Thick, heavy, clinging. SDN's signature fragrance somehow translates even across species. Your nose wrinkles.
"Good morning, [Y/N]!"
You barely have time to brace before Evan appears in your peripheral vision, softly glowing, light pink, still absolutely failing to blend in with the human population, despite the HR-approved glasses he insists are professional.
He doesn't even need glasses.
They don't even have lenses.
But he says they "help him look more official."
His humanoid form has improved a lot since he first started, less half-deflated mannequin, more "almost human." But the colour... still aggressively, impossibly pink.
He claims he hasn't "mastered human pigmentation" yet. You've long since stopped arguing about it.
Funny thing is, despite being a glowing pink alien with zero working knowledge of melanin, Evan somehow blends into the workplace better than you do. People adore him. They smile at him. They talk to him without flinching. He fits.
You... do not.
He beams at you, eyes bright like polished rose quartz, and hands you a steaming cup of coffee.
"You look like you fought your alarm and lost," Evan says, expression concerned but teasing.
"Funny enough, I did," you deadpan. "It won."
He laughs, a soft, musical sound that seems to hum in the air. He always laughs like he has never heard a joke before. Like everything you say is brand new and delightful.
"I know mornings are tough," he continues, cheeks warming to a slightly deeper shade of pink, "so I made your favourite."
You blink at him, touched.
"Evan. I could marry you."
"You say that every day," he answers, trying and failing to hide how flustered he is.
"And I mean it every day," you reply, straight-faced.
His glow brightens half a shade, blushing if he were human. He gestures toward the elevator, walking beside you as the doors slide open. His steps are light, too light, like gravity is optional for him today. His entire existence is like that, gentle, soft, unthreatening, even though you are convinced he could probably bench-press a car if he wanted to.
Once the elevator doors close behind you, his glow dims slightly, softening around the edges.
"Hey," he says quietly, lowering his voice so only you can hear. "You alright? You look like you're about to punch the next person who breathes too loudly."
You drag in a shaky breath, your shoulders still tight, pulse still pounding in your throat. "I'm fine," you mutter, the words coming out thin and unconvincing. "Just... a lot this morning."
Evan hums, quietly sceptical but not pushing, "Yeah, some days hit harder, and you've already had a few of those lately."
You let out a hollow, humourless breath. "Tell me about it."
YOU ARE READING
Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)
Romance"Dude, I think I miss working as the Dispatcher..." It wasn't supposed to be like this. One minute, I was behind a desk, pushing papers. Next, I was thrown into chaos. I used to only read about it in incident reports. Somewhere along the way, I stop...
