Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 13: Unseen

Then, with a careful, almost trembling motion, he extends his hand toward you. There is a hesitant, tentative quality to it, as if he is offering something far more than just a flower, something from the deepest, most fragile part of himself. Nestled in his grasp is a single rose, petals soft and pinkish peach, glowing in the gentle light of the room. The edges quiver slightly, mirroring the nervous flutter in his chest.

The colour suits him perfectly, soft, warm, tender, and earnest, just like him.

Your eyes trace the curve of the bloom, but it is impossible not to notice him, the way he shifts on his feet, how his gaze keeps flicking up to yours, how the faintest bite of his lip betrays his nerves.

Your stomach flips.

It feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, the rest of everything fading away. Herman, towering over you even while standing nervously in the doorway, holds out something small and delicate, and it is almost impossible not to be completely captivated. The fragile bravery of the gesture, the way he extends the rose, his fingers trembling just slightly, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, makes your chest tighten, and your breath catch in a way you did not expect.

You feel the impulse to move, to close the small distance between you, but it slips away, replaced by a soft, unexpected warmth that leaves you breathless and still.

He takes a tiny step closer, and you are acutely aware of just how much taller he is. Your head tilts up instinctively, your eyes meeting his briefly, and you notice the way his long lashes flicker down before meeting yours again, the shy tilt of his head almost imperceptible. His shoulders hunch ever so slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller despite towering over you, and the way his fingers curl lightly around the rose, protective, careful, unsure, strikes something tender and aching in your chest.

"I-I... I wante-d-d to g-give-...to pr-proper-say thank you," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, soft and quivering with shyness. "F-for... for sa-saving me... um... you didn't have to, but..ya-... you did." Each word carries careful, fragile weight, as if he is placing something precious into your hands and hoping you will treat it gently.

He swallows, shoulders rising with a small, nervous inhale before falling again, and for a moment, he seems to shrink inside himself despite being taller than you. "And, um..." His eyes flick briefly to your outfit, then dart away like he has caught himself doing something daring just by looking. "I... I like what you are wearing. It... it looks really nice on you." The blush creeping across his cheeks makes his pale skin almost glow, and the slight tremble in his jaw hints at just how much effort it took him to say the words.

There is a tiny, almost imperceptible pride in his voice. He is proud of himself for speaking, proud for offering a piece of himself he usually keeps hidden. You cannot help but notice the way he glances at you, hopeful but hesitant, like he is afraid of being too much or not enough.

Your mind stutters.

This isn't a date, right? I swear to God it isn't...

But then you take the rose in your hand. His fingers brush yours so softly that it feels electric, and your defences melt almost instantly. The faint warmth of his skin against yours, the shy, tentative smile tugging at his lips, the gentle tilt of his head, all combine into something unbearably sweet. His blush mirrors the tender petals of the flower, a perfect echo of his quiet, earnest courage, and your heart thumps painfully in response.

You glance up at him, up at his tall, lanky frame, his hands now empty, the rose safely tucked in yours. Even without it in his grasp, he looks like he is offering not just a flower but a piece of his heart. It is impossible not to smile because he is nervous and completely endearing all at once. Even towering above you, he somehow manages to look smaller than he is, vulnerable, genuine, and entirely captivating.