The next few hours were a blur of booths, free swag, and photos with cosplayers. By the time one-fifty rolled around, you were practically vibrating for a different reason.

You had to pee.

Not the gentle, ignorable kind. The urgent, pressing, oh-no kind that makes every minute feel like an hour. You spent the rest of the panel in a special kind of agony, shifting subtly in your seat, mentally pleading for it to end.

The second the moderator thanked him and the crowd began to rise, you were up. You shot Catherine a quick text—looking for the bathroom!—and joined the river of people flowing out into the hallway. You remembered seeing restrooms near the escalators leading downstairs. Perfect.

You reached the escalator bank and stepped onto the descending metal stairs, letting it carry you down. You pulled out your phone, a dual mission: text Catherine an update and scroll Instagram to distract your very specific, very urgent suffering.

Then, a voice, close behind your right shoulder. Casual. Warm.