Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 8: Crossroads

But hers...

Hers are different.

Hers are starting to feel familiar. Safe. Maybe even a little addictive.

"Afterwards," she continues, her voice dipping just slightly, "come back to me. I have something to discuss with you."

The last part hangs in the air, heavy with meaning.

Her gaze slips away from you, unusual enough to make your heartbeat pause. She looks down at her desk, lashes fanning over her cheeks, teeth catching the inside of her bottom lip in a small, unconscious show of vulnerability. Her shoulders draw in, posture curling ever so slightly as if she is holding something delicate inside her chest, something she is not sure how to set free.

And instantly, the room feels different.

Thicker.

Quieter.

"That sounds ominous..." You murmur, eyes narrowing as you study her.

Her reaction is almost comically fast, her head snapping up, eyes wide for a split second before she tries to mask it.

"You're not getting fired," she rushes out, lifting both hands as if calming a startled animal. Then her voice lowers again, controlled but laced with uncertainty. "But it is... a pretty big thing."

Her eyes are serious, serious in a way that does not distance you, but pulls you closer.

There is no coldness there, only intention. A certainty she is holding onto, even if she is unsure how you will receive it.

The kind of look someone gives before saying something that might change the air between you forever.

Suddenly, despite your stiff muscles, the exhaustion dragging at your bones, the hunger twisting your stomach, you feel startlingly, almost painfully alert.

Like someone flipped on all the lights inside your head at once.

"Well, now I'm even more terrified..." You mutter, fingers dragging through your hair in a restless scratch, the gesture betraying nerves you wish you did not have. Your voice comes out thinner than you intend, half-joking but undeniably uneasy.

Her expression softens the moment she notices your discomfort. The tension in her shoulders eases, her posture opening again, like she is inviting you to breathe with her. She steps away from the rigid edge of professionalism, her tone slipping into something warmer, steadier.

"Hey," she says gently, almost reaching out before stopping herself. "It's nothing bad. I just... need to talk to you. Properly. And I want you fed before we do that."

That last line carries weight, an intention she does not explain, but neither does she try to hide it.

Your stomach tightens, not from hunger this time, but from the strange mixture of dread and anticipation curling through you. You study her face, the way her eyes flicker with something unspoken, the way she breathes in like she is rehearsing sentences in her head.

"...You're being way too dramatic for someone claiming it's nothing bad," you say quietly, attempting a weak smirk.

She huffs out a small laugh, barely a breath, but real. "Maybe. But it is important."

Important. The word lands like a stone in your chest.

You nod slowly, feeling the shift in atmosphere, feeling her sincerity press gently but firmly against your nerves.

"Alright," you murmur. "I'll... come back after I eat."

Her relief is subtle but unmistakable, her shoulders drop, her gaze softens, and for a heartbeat, she looks at you the way someone looks at a choice they hope you will make twice.