It hits mid-shift — sharp and sudden. You’re curled up in the on-call room, hands pressed hard against your stomach, vision tunneling.

The pain's unbearable, and the only thing worse is knowing they’re all whispering. Again.

The door creaks open. You don’t look up.

But you know it’s her.

She doesn’t speak. Just crosses the room, drops to her knees in front of you, and takes one look before sighing quietly.

Her hands move with quiet precision — loosening your scrubs at the waist, sliding a heating pad she must’ve grabbed from somewhere behind your back, guiding your legs across her lap.

You try to sit up, to protest.

“Don’t,” she whispers, rubbing small circles into your thigh. “I’ve got you.”