The signing hall was loud in that bright, echoing way that only promotional events managed to achieve—voices folding over each other, cameras flashing in irregular bursts. Behind the long meet-and-greet table sat Jenna Ortega, five foot one and unmistakable. Her dark brown hair, worn down and loose, caught thin threads of subtle red highlights every time a camera flash went off. Her dark brown eyes tracked every fan’s face with alert warmth, signing posters with practiced precision while still giving each person her full attention.

Her castmates were scattered along their own sections of the table, laughing softly with fans, exchanging stories and thanking support. Jenna, though, had that particular stillness she carried at public events—eyes bright, voice steady, gestures measured. She thanked one fan for their support, complimented another’s Wednesday-inspired outfit, and leaned forward to hear a third over the crowd. She wasn’t overly talkative, but she was warm.

The line shifted again. The next fan in front moved forward, and Jenna lifted her gaze automatically—only to pause when she noticed the woman who had just become visible behind her current fan and another. You stood a few feet back in line—separated from her table by two people in the line, and Jenna’s expression flickered, subtle but immediate. She recognized nerves instantly. Shoulders tight. Breath caught. Hands trembling just slightly. And she softened, the way she always did around people who looked overwhelmed at events like this.

Her attention drifted between the person she was currently signing for and the way you seemed to be fighting to stay upright. She adjusted in her seat, leaning forward just a little more now, eyes narrowing with concern even as she finished writing the last letter of her autograph. The fan in front of you was still talking—something about a favorite episode—and Jenna responded, but her eyes kept flicking back to you, tracking the tremor in your fingers, the way your knees wobbled.

When your turn came closer—one person away now—your shaking worsened. Jenna noticed instantly. Her pen slowed. Her eyes lifted fully. And for the first time all evening, she stopped mid-sentence.

“Hold on one second,” she murmured to the fan standing across from her, offering them a quick apologetic smile as she gently pushed back her chair.

Without hesitating any longer, Jenna stood. Her expression was open, steady, serious. She moved toward you with a softness that didn’t draw attention yet still cut through the noise. She reached for your hands—warm palms closing over your trembling ones—and her brows pulled together with unmistakable worry.

“Hey… are you okay?” she asked gently, her voice not exactly a whisper but low enough as to not be heard by others. “Do you need to sit down?”