Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 13: Unseen

You pull them free and drape them over the back of a chair. A small, decisive action. At least one thing is settled.

The top, however, feels like a battlefield you are wildly unprepared for.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the pile of clothes on the floor. Shirts half-forgotten, worn thin at the seams. Hoodies are soft from overuse, carrying the faint, comforting scent of familiarity. Fabric slips through your fingers as you sift, lifting pieces only to discard them seconds later.

Too casual.

Too old.

Too much like you didn't care.

You open the cupboard again, slower this time, as if patience might somehow conjure better options. The shelves look exactly the same as they did five minutes ago. The problem remains stubbornly unsolved.

You sit back on your heels and catch sight of yourself in the wardrobe mirror. You look... fine. Tired, maybe. Comfortable. Someone who dresses for movement and practicality, not polite dinners and careful impressions. Someone who never learned how to prepare for moments like this because life rarely gave them the luxury of them.

You lightly trace the scar on your cheek.

And that's the real issue, isn't it?

You tell yourself the dinner meant nothing. That it was just food, just conversation, just a passing kindness. You have faced worse rooms, heavier stakes, sharper dangers. This should be easy.

Because he is not just anyone. He is someone whose life brushed against yours at exactly the wrong time, and somehow, impossibly, you were strong enough to change how that collision ended. Strong enough to leave something intact instead of broken.

So why does your chest feel tight?

Why does the thought of stepping into his grandmother's home make your stomach flutter with nerves you cannot quite name? Sitting at a table steeped in history, you do not belong. Being looked at, assessed, welcomed - or not. Being more than a passing figure. More than a moment.

You exhale slowly and shake your head, grounding yourself.

Stop overthinking it.

This is just a meal. A thank you. A kindness returned because he doesn't know how else to express it. And maybe it matters so much to him because it is one of the few ways he knows how to say this meant something to me.

Your hand brushes against a folded shirt near the back of the cupboard, and something about it makes you pause. You pull it out, holding it up.

Simple. Clean lines. Soft fabric. Not flashy. Not careless either.

It is not perfect.

But neither is this situation.

You nod once to yourself. "That'll do," you murmur, more resolved than you feel.

You stand and start getting dressed, movements slow and deliberate, as if treating the process with more care might quiet the nerves curling low in your stomach.

The jeans slide on first, familiar weight, grounding. They fit the way they always have, worn-in and reliable, sitting comfortably on your hips without demanding attention. You button them, zip them up, and straighten, already feeling marginally more put together than you did moments ago.

The shirt comes next. Clean. Soft. You pull it over your head and smooth the fabric down, fingers lingering for a moment at the hem as if assessing it by touch alone. It is plain, but intentional. The kind of plain that says I tried, even if only a little.