Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 13: Unseen

You move closer to the mirror.

Your hair is still slightly damp from the shower, darker at the roots, curling just enough to betray the fact that you did not rush it. You had taken your time, letting the steam soak into your skin, scrubbing away the faint metallic scent of old adrenaline, of places you do not want to think about too closely. Your skin looks cleaner, warmer. The sharp edges of exhaustion softened, if not erased.

You lift your chin, turning slightly from side to side. Presentable. That is the word that comes to mind. Not polished. Not impressive. Just... acceptable.

Your gaze drops, instinctively checking what the shirt does not quite hide. The faint shadows along your ribs. The bruises are blooming dark and yellowed on your arm. Evidence of things you would rather not explain across a dinner table.

With a quiet breath, you reach for the jacket.

It is hanging off the back of your chair, one of the few nicer things you own. An aviator-style jacket, worn leather softened with age, the lining still warm from where you had draped it earlier. You shrug into it, rolling your shoulders as it settles into place, familiar and comforting. The weight of it feels protective, like armour masquerading as fashion.

You zip it partway, checking the mirror again.

Better.

The bruises disappear beneath the jacket's cut. You look intentional now. Someone who chose this outfit, not someone who fell into it by default. Someone who belongs outside their own room.

You step back, giving yourself one last once-over. Hair. Clothes. Jacket. You adjust the collar, smooth the sleeves, then let your hands fall to your sides.

Okay.

Bag.

You glance at the options: a beat-up backpack slumped against the wall, zipper half-broken; a small sling bag you rarely use and a canvas tote folded on a shelf; nothing else. You start weighing the choices absently; you do not need much, just your phone, keys, maybe your wallet.

You are halfway to picking up the smaller bag when your phone vibrates on the bed.

Your phone vibrates on the bed.

Once. Then again.

You don't need to look to know who it is.

A small, almost helpless smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself. Of course, he is checking in. Of course he is. Probably just to confirm that you are still coming. Or that you have not forgotten. Or that nothing has changed in the last ten minutes.

You cross the room and pick up the phone, the screen lighting up in your hand exactly as you expected.

Herman.

You exhale softly, a mix of amusement and fondness, your thumb hovering over the screen.

You type a quick reply, telling him you are on your way.

You lock the phone and set it back down on the bed, the faint buzz of connection lingering longer than the screen light. For a moment, the room feels smaller, quieter, like it is holding its breath with you.

You reach for the sling bag after all. It is lighter, less bulky, and easier to carry. You slip your phone, wallet, and keys inside, zip it closed, and sling it over your shoulder. It sits comfortably against your side, unobtrusive.

One last look in the mirror.

You adjust the jacket collar slightly, straighten your shoulders, and take a steady breath. Whatever this is, awkward, earnest, heavier than you expected, it is waiting for you now.