Almost like paternal instincts, you bend down and scoop her up, movements careful, tense, almost clumsy. One arm slides beneath her tiny knees, the other cradling her back. She is feather-light, practically weightless in your arms, yet you hold her as if she might shatter if you let go.
She stiffens for a moment, surprise written across her tear-streaked face, then melts against you. Her small arms loop weakly around your neck. Her cheek presses against your chest, right over your heartbeat, and the warmth radiates into you like an electric pulse.
Your whole body goes rigid. You have no idea what people do with kids. You have never carried anyone so small, so fragile, and yet so entirely dependent. You adjust your hold, careful not to hurt her, careful not to let her feel anything but safety.
"When you're hurt," you murmur, voice soft and a slight red tint on your face, "you should tell a grown-up, okay? Always."
She tilts her head back, looking up at you with that tiny, tear-streaked face. One ponytail has come loose, strands of hair brushing against her forehead. Her missing front tooth shows when she opens her mouth, a little adorable gap that makes your chest tighten all over again.
"Grown-ups?" she whispers, voice soft and high, laced with a question rather than a demand.
"Yeah," you say, nodding kindly, keeping your voice calm. "They can help. They can make sure no one hurts you again."
Her little fingers tighten around yours as if to confirm the promise. She burrows closer into your chest as you shift slightly, making space for her to settle. She nuzzles her nose against your hoodie, leaving a faint wet mark from her tears. You cough quietly, embarrassed by how protective the sensation makes you feel, how startlingly natural it is to want to keep her safe.
Her tiny voice drifts up again, barely audible.
"Prince...?"
You blink, confused.
She peers at you through the strands of her hair, cheeks flushed and wet. "You're... like the prince in my storybook," she murmurs, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the tears. "You... saved me."
Your chest tightens again.
You're not a prince. You're tired. Bruised. Probably not the kind of hero that shows up in books. Probably not a hero at all, actually...
...but right now, to her, you are. Right now, that is enough.
You let yourself smile gently, awkwardly.
"Yeah... I guess I'm your prince," you murmur, voice soft, a little self-conscious, letting the weight of her trust sink in. "Let's get you fixed up, okay?"
Her lips quiver as she struggles to speak, her small voice breaking between sobs.
"I... I lost my uncle..." she says, gripping the fabric of your hoodie as if holding on will keep the world from tipping over.
"We... we were playin'," she stutters, sniffing so hard it rattles her small frame, "an' then... then some bad man- he took him away. An'-an' one of them grabbed me, an'... an' uncle hit him with fire!"
You blink, startled, the words catching you off guard.
"Fire?" you ask gently, trying not to sound alarmed, letting the incredulity fall away in favour of calm.
She nods quickly, desperate. Her lower lip quivers, and tears spill down her round cheeks.
"He-he had fire! An' he went boosh-!" She flails one tiny arm dramatically, trying to illustrate the chaos she's seen. "An' he said I had to run! An' I ran... an' I ran... an' didn't stop!"
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...
Chapter 12: Pain Killer
Start from the beginning
