The interview had been going smoothly—laughs, anecdotes, the usual charm Jenna knew how to turn on even on her worst days. But you, seated just off-camera as part of her team, could see it in her eyes: the tension in her jaw, the subtle shift in her posture. She was in pain.

It hit hard mid-sentence. Jenna blinked, froze for a second, and then muttered a quick, “Sorry, give me one sec.” She stood up abruptly, brushing the hem of her blazer down with forced calm, but her hand shot back to clutch her lower stomach.

Without looking at anyone else, she walked straight toward you, grabbed your wrist with a quiet urgency, and whispered:

“Bathroom. Now.”

You didn’t ask questions. She all but dragged you down the hallway, heels clicking fast, her fingers wrapped tightly around yours. Once inside the private restroom, she leaned against the counter with a breathy, annoyed sigh.

“Cramps.”

She muttered through clenched teeth.

“Why does my uterus hate interviews?”

You stood close, steady, while she leaned into you for a moment—just enough to steal a bit of comfort before pulling herself together again.