Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 8: Crossroads

Sugar mommy.

God.

Why did you-

The doors slide open with a soft chime.

This floor feels different, lights dimmed, washed in a soft white glow, and for a moment, the whole hallway feels like the world has lowered its voice. You walk slowly toward Herman's ward, pausing with your hand on the door, letting out one breath before you push it open.

Inside, Herman lies propped up on pillows. He is still pale, but no longer the frightening white he had been; more colour clings to him now, as if life is finally returning in slow, careful strokes. His eyes flicker to you, confusion melting into something almost fragile.

"Y-you," he croaks, voice rough from disuse. "You... c-ame? You a-actual- actually... here."

You step in, closing the door behind you, pulling a chair closer to his bedside.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I said I would come by, didn't I?"

For a second, disappointment shadows his expression.

"O-oh. For the... f-formalities?" His blueish-grey eyes lift to yours, hopeful in that small, painful way-like he is bracing for a letdown he is used to.

God. Those eyes. Too earnest. Too open. Like he has not learned how to hide himself the way everyone else has. It is almost disarming.

"No," you say, voice gentler. "Not formalities. I came because I wanted to see how you were doing."

You lift the takeout bag slightly, letting it rustle. "And because hospital food sucks. So, I brought you something actually edible. I hope you like shrimp fried rice."

His eyes widen-

truly widen

Not in shock, but in something much smaller and much deeper: disbelief dressed up as gratitude. No one's done something like this for him in... a long time. Maybe ever. Only his grandmother. Most people avoid him, the constant drip of water, the damp sheets, the trail he leaves. They stare. They recoil. They whisper.

But you... haven't run.

Not when you first met him, and he accidentally splattered water onto your face straight from his skin. You just laughed, brushing it off as if it were nothing.

That memory hits him now, and his throat tightens.

A slow, trembling smile forms on his face, soft and full of something he does not quite know how to name.

"I... I'm... grateful," he says quietly. "T-to you."

You shake your head, uncomfortable with the praise but letting it settle around you anyway. "You did the hard part, Herman. You held on."

For a moment, the room is still. Machines beep in a steady, almost comforting rhythm. The morning sun pools through the curtains like warm gold. Herman sinks back into the pillows, shoulders loosening for the first time in days, maybe weeks.

"Thank you," he murmurs again, this time with a steadier voice.

You meet his gaze and nod once. "Anytime."

And you mean it.

The silence that follows is not empty; it is warm, steady, a quiet shelter carved out just for the two of you. A stillness that feels almost sacred, suspended between breath and heartbeat, wrapping the room in a soft, fragile peace neither of you is ready to break.

---

After lunch, you excuse yourself gently, watching Herman's eyelids droop as the weight of food and comfort pulls at him. You step out of the ward, letting the door click softly behind you. A tightness coils in your stomach, anticipation thrumming beneath your ribs.