You wake up slowly, drifting upward through layers of warm, heavy sleep until your eyelids flutter open. Everything is soft and hazy at first, too soft, too warm, not the feeling of the cold, hard edge of your desk. Instead, your cheek sinks into a pillow, a blanket is tucked loosely over your shoulders, and the couch beneath you is plush enough to lull you right back into unconsciousness.
You blink rapidly, letting the world sharpen. The office lights are dimmed, casting a warm, honey-coloured glow across the room. Papers rustle softly, keys click, and the faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, light, familiar, a little floral.
"You're awake," she says.
Her voice pulls you the rest of the way back. Blonde Blazer sits at her desk, posture elegant, expression composed except for the tiny, amused curve pulling at the corner of her lips. Her eyes flick up from the scattered documents and land on you with a look that is equal parts fond and exasperated.
You push yourself upright, dragging a hand down your face. "Oh, jeez, Blondie... I'm sorry. I knocked out. I'll get back to-"
"[Y/N]."
Your name leaves her lips like a soft command, quiet, steady, impossibly gentle. It stops you more effectively than if she had raised her voice.
"You worked all day yesterday," she says, leaning back slightly in her chair. Her tone softens even more, the edges of her words melting into something close to concern. "And then you handled the downtown incident from last night until this morning."
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft shuffle of papers as she sets down her pen.
"If I made you get up and keep working now..." she murmurs, her voice practically a whisper, "it would look like I'm running a sweatshop."
Her attempt at humour sits atop something deeper, something sincere and quietly worried, woven into the way her eyes stay on you a second too long.
You blink at her, the realisation settling in. She is not teasing you about slacking off. She is worried. About you.
A tired, crooked grin tugs at the corner of your mouth. "Maybe I like selling my soul to SDN," you mumble, stretching your stiff neck as a few joints crack in protest.
Right on cue, your stomach lets out a monstrous growl, violent, echoing, traitorous.
You freeze.
She doesn't
She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, smirking like she just caught you doing something embarrassing on camera.
Your gaze flicks to the clock on the wall.
12:00 p.m.
Break time.
Of course. Your internal clock never misses the chance to embarrass you.
She exhales through her nose, shaking her head with a soft, amused sigh, then reaches for her wallet. The motion is unhurried, almost elegant, like she has done this countless times. She pulls out a couple of notes and gently slides them across her desk with the faintest brush of her fingertips.
The gesture is quiet but deeply intentional.
"Go get something to eat outside," she says, her smile warm and disarming. "It's on me. Consider it... a good job for last night."
Her words land softer than the cash hitting the table, sinking into you with a warmth that unfurls slowly in your chest. It is not the money, it is the tenderness she wrapped it in, the quiet recognition she rarely gives anyone. You take the bills delicately, your fingertips brushing them as if they are something fragile, because in a way, they are. She offered you care, and that has always been harder for you to accept than any compliment.
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...
