Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 8: Crossroads

You lean back against the wall for a moment, inhale, then push off and make your way down the hall toward the exit. Your steps are lighter now, but your mind is anything but.

What exactly did she mean by "a pretty big thing"?

Whatever it is, it has not stopped buzzing in your thoughts since morning.

By the time you reach the office, you have forced yourself back into work mode, the sound of your shoes against the tile syncing with your heartbeat, the low murmur of coworkers fading into background static, the faint scent of burnt coffee clinging to the air like exhaustion made tangible. You push everything else down.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus.

You knock on the blonde blazer's door and wait.

"Come in," she calls, but her voice is different. A little tighter. A little too careful.

You step inside.

She is already seated behind her desk, but not in her usual composed, unshakable posture. Her shoulders are drawn a little stiffly. Her fingers tap once against the tablet in her hand before she forces them still. Her eyes lift to you, not cold, not stern, but worried. There is a crease between her brows that should not be there.

"Take a seat," she says, gesturing to the chair in front of her. The words are professional. The look she gives you is not.

You lower yourself into the chair, raising your hands in mock surrender even as your stomach knots. "Okay, I'm not going to lie-you're freaking me out here."

Her reaction is immediate, a quiet exhale that sounds almost like a sigh of relief. A soft, breathy laugh slips out, thin around the edges, like she had not been sure you would joke, like she needed that tiny sign you were still... you.

A soft, breathy laugh escapes her. "Relax. Again, I am not firing you."

She pauses, her gaze flickering over your face as if checking; Are you tired? Are you hurt? Did last night take more out of you than you admitted?

Then she sets the tablet down and straightens her posture, slipping back into her professional demeanour, but the worry still lingers beneath it.

"As you know," she begins, "villain activity has been on the rise. Rapidly. It is becoming a major issue in Torrence."

You nod, tension pulling tight between your shoulders. Her tone is not just informative; it is weighted. Careful. Like she is setting the stage for something much bigger.

Her gaze drops to the folder on her desk, your file, overstuffed and worn at the edges from being handled too many times. Layers of reports, peer reviews, commendations. You recognise the handwriting of supervisors, senior dispatchers, even two heroes who almost never take the time to write anything down.

A lump forms in your throat.

"It should come as no surprise," she continues, "that the higher-ups and I have noticed your dedication."

She looks up at you, eyes soft but steady. "You don't just do your job; you go beyond it. Consistently. And you excel."

She rotates the folder toward you, letting you see the pages. Part of you wants to look away. Praise has never felt like warm light; it feels like a spotlight searching for cracks. As if they have mistaken you for someone better, someone cleaner, someone who deserves the word 'good'.

"And if last night wasn't confirmation enough..."

She lifts another sheet, the report you had fallen asleep on, the one you had only half-finished. The paper still carries the faint watermark of your drool, but the handwriting filling the rest of the boxes is clean and precise.