INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING

The room is quiet, filled with sunlight.

Link sits on the edge of the bed, his hospital gown open at the back but covered with a light zip-up sweatshirt. He looks a bit less washed-out, but his movements are stiff, careful.

Jo stands by the window, scrolling through something on her phone — half watching, half giving him space.

A PT and the same intern from the day before enter with a light knock.

PT
Morning, Dr. Lincoln.
Ready to stretch those legs again?

Link lets out a slow breath, trying to sound casual.

LINK
Yeah.
I’m ready to do more than six sad steps.

The intern smiles politely.

INTERN
We’ll see what your body agrees with.

PT
Same rules as yesterday: Listen to your pain. No pushing past it.
No heroics.

Link’s jaw tightens.

LINK
Got it.
No fun allowed.

He glances at Jo.

LINK
You don’t have to stay for this.

JO
(soft)
No. I’ll stay.
 
The PT and intern help him rise slowly.

Link winces as his ribs and chest pull, but he forces himself upright.

Jo moves closer on instinct, hands hovering, eyes tracking every wobble.

He takes a cautious step.
Then another. Breathing shallow, irritated.

PT
Good.
Nice and slow.
Remember to breathe.

Link’s breaths are short, frustrated.

LINK
That’s all I do — breathe and stare at the same four walls.
Would be nice to actually get somewhere.

PT
This is getting somewhere.

Link doesn’t answer.

He makes it to the end of the bed. The PT gently steers him to turn.

PT
Let’s go to the door and back.
That’s enough for this morning.

Link looks at the open doorway as if it’s miles away.

LINK
(winces)
Come on.
I can go farther than that.

PT
One step at a time. 

LINK
Literally.
At this rate, my wife will have delivered the twins. 

Jo feels the tension. 

He pushes forward anyway, as he makes his way toward the door, every breath shallow and tight.

JO
Hey. You’re doing great.

LINK
Yeah, well, that won’t get me home anytime soon.

JO
Give yourself some grace. 

He swallows, throat thick. His legs wobble slightly.

The PT steps in.

PT
Okay, that’s enough for now. Let’s turn around.

Link reaches the doorway and stops, looking longingly at the hallway like it’s freedom.

LINK
We could go a little farther.

PT
Not today.

A beat.

Link’s frustration flashes.

LINK
Feels like I spend my day walking in circles and everyone keeps calling it progress.

The PT stays steady.

PT
Doctors make the worst patients.
You’re easily in the top three.

LINK
I’ll take the trophy when I’m back on my feet.

PT
Your ribs are still knitting.
Your lung is still healing.
This is progress.

LINK
I wish you’d let me go further. 

From the side, Jo tries again — gentle, hopeful.

JO
Link, this is huge.
A few days ago you were unconscious. Now you’re walking—

He cuts in, not sharply, but heavy.

LINK
Jo… you really don’t have to stay for this.

She pauses — startled. It’s small, but it hits.

JO
What?

He avoids her eyes, as the PT helps guide him back toward the bed.

LINK
You don’t have to watch me embarrass myself.

He tries to make it sound like a joke — but it doesn’t quite land.

JO
You are not. 
I want to be here.

He nods, but doesn’t look at her.

LINK
You should be home.
Resting.
With the kids.
Not… spending your day babysitting me.

Jo’s face softens and tightens at the same time.

JO
I’m not…

He knows.
But he can’t hold her gaze.

The PT silently reads the room and focuses on the mechanics.

They guide Link back to the bed.
He sits down, breath shaking, sweat on his forehead.

PT
You did well.
We’ll build on that this afternoon.

Link gives a short, frustrated nod, eyes on the floor.

LINK
Yeah.
Sure.

The PT looks to Jo, then back to Link.

PT
I’ll come back later.
Get some rest.

The PT and intern step out.
Silence. Just Link’s uneven breaths.

Jo stands a little apart now, arms loosely folded — not angry, just worried.

JO
You know I’m not here out of obligation, right?

Link drags a hand over his face, exhausted and ashamed of how the morning went.

LINK
I know.
It’s just…

He searches for a word big enough for everything he’s feeling — finds none.

LINK
I don’t love having you see me like this.
Barely able to walk ten feet with an entourage.

Jo steps closer, her voice soft, steady.

JO
You survived an explosion and a massive surgery.
You’re allowed to be where you are. 

Link exhales, but it doesn’t soothe him.
He leans back against the pillows, looking suddenly older, worn.

LINK
Yeah.
Well.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Jo’s eyes flicker with sadness — quickly masked.

JO
Well… I don’t like it either.

He glances at her, surprised by the admission. Something fragile cracks open.

A beat.

LINK
(quiet, tired)
I’m sorry.
I’m… not great company right now.

Jo’s expression softens immediately.

JO
You’ve had better days. 

A beat. His voice is smaller when it comes.

LINK
(quiet, cracking just slightly)
I just… I want to be home when the babies come.
I can’t be stuck here.

Jo’s eyes soften — but the sadness behind them is unmistakable.

She steps closer, instinctively wanting to soothe him.

JO
We’ll get there. One day at a time.

But Link’s breathing is tight, uneven — the fear isn’t gone.

It’s turning into frustration, shame, restlessness.

A beat. 

LINK
(softens)
You should take the afternoon.
Go home early.
Be with the kids.

It’s not cold.
But it is distance.
Jo hears it. Feels it.

JO
…We’ll see how the day goes.

He nods without looking up.

A long, quiet beat stretches between them —
not anger, not conflict…
but something new, subtle, unmistakable: the first crack.

FADE OUT.