Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 13: Unseen

And despite everything, you find you are ready to meet it head-on.

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You arrive at Herman's place and lift your hand, knocking lightly against the door. The sound echoes down the quiet hallway, far louder than you expect, and suddenly you're acutely aware of how still everything feels. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as you wait, heart beating just a little too fast, your thoughts tangling over themselves as the seconds stretch.

Then the door opens.

Herman stands there, filling the doorway without even trying to, tall enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. There is a nervous energy radiating off him in soft, uneven waves, his shoulders tense, his posture careful, like he is afraid of standing the wrong way. He looks... different. Not in a dramatic way, but in the way that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He is dressed simply: a crisp white button-up shirt tucked into black, cargo-like shorts. Ordinary clothes. Nothing flashy. And yet, on him, it feels unfair. The shirt clings in places it absolutely should not. Damp from his powers, the fabric darkens just enough to faintly outline the solid curve of his chest beneath it. Water beads along the seams, catching the light when he moves, and your eyes - traitorous things - follow the line of his torso before you can stop yourself.

How is he wearing this... somehow more scandalous than him not wearing a shirt at all?

You think, deadpan, internally screaming at the sheer unfairness of it.

Your gaze drops before you can catch it, down, just a fraction, and that is when you see it.

The healing mark on his stomach.

It is still faintly bruised, the skin slightly discoloured where a brutal punch had landed not long ago. Not fresh, but not gone either. A reminder. A quiet testament to how hard he had been hit... and how little he had complained about it. Your chest tightens painfully, anger flaring, hot and sharp, tangled with guilt and worry.

Herman notices your stare for the briefest moment.

His cheeks heat instantly, pink blooming across them as if he has been caught doing something wrong, and without even thinking about it, his hand lifts to his stomach. His fingers rest over the healing spot, not pressing, just covering it, protective, instinctive. Like he is trying to shield you from seeing it.

" I-I'm okay," he murmurs quickly, shy and breathless, eyes dropping to the floor as if he is embarrassed by his own injury. His voice is barely above a whisper, soft and sincere. "It... it doesn't hurt much anymore."

The gesture hits you harder than the wound itself ever could.

There is something achingly gentle about the way he downplays it, the way he hides vulnerability in plain sight and offers reassurance instead. He tells you not to worry about him, even when he is the one who was hurt. It strikes something cold and long dormant in your chest, cracks it open just enough to let warmth rush in. You are suddenly caught in a mess of emotions, protective instinct clawing at your ribs, flustered embarrassment burning your cheeks, and an admiration so unexpected it leaves you dizzy.

Before you can say anything, before your heart can calm down, your attention is pulled to a movement between you.

Only then do you notice what he has been holding all this time.

Herman hesitates for a long, tense second, his fingers tightening almost painfully around the stem of the rose as if he is afraid it might slip or worse that he might. His chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, and you catch the tiniest flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, the way he is measuring himself against your gaze.