INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON 

The light in the room has shifted.
Later now. More muted.

Link sits upright in bed, staring at nothing, lost in his thoughts. 

The laptop remains closed on the tray.
The memorial is over.  
But it hasn’t left him. 

A soft knock.

Jo enters, still in scrubs.
Her hair is pulled back hastily, a few strands loose.
She looks tired, but relieved to see him.

JO
Hey.

Link turns his head.

Forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

LINK
Hey.

JO
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

She crosses the room, sits beside him.

LINK
For what?

JO
I was supposed to be off…

He shrugs gently, automatic.

LINK
Emergency C-section kinda outranks bed-ridden husband.

She smiles at the attempt at humor — then fills the silence, sensing something off.

JO
Mom and baby are both fine. 

LINK
Good. 

The word is right.
But it lands flat. Automatic.

Jo notices.
She studies his face, then reaches for his hand.
He lets her take it.

JO
I hate that I missed the memorial.
How was it?

LINK 
It was…
what you’d expect.

That’s all he offers.

Jo waits.
Doesn’t push.
Leaves him space.

He doesn’t add anything.
The silence stretches.

She tries again, softer. As she sees something is deeply affecting him.

JO
It might help to talk to someone about what happened.
it doesn’t have to be me, but—

Link shakes his head once. 
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just closed.

LINK
What is there to say?

It’s honest.
And it lands wrong.
Jo nods, swallowing it.

JO
(soft)
Okay.
I’m just saying… talking is part of healing too.

She squeezes his hand — grounding herself as much as him.

He doesn’t squeeze back.

A beat. 

JO
I should head home now, if I want to see the kids before bed.
Luna’s not feeling great.

That gets his attention.

LINK
What’s wrong?

JO
That’s all I know.
Your mom texted earlier — hasn’t answered since.

LINK
Okay.
Let me know how she is.

Another pause. Thicker this time.

Link finally looks at her — really looks — and gently places a hand over her belly.

LINK
How are you feeling?
You haven’t had a second to rest.

Jo exhales softly.

JO
I am fine. 
Your parents have been incredible.

LINK
Good.
I hate that I can’t do more right now.

JO
It’s okay. 
You focus on you.

LINK
Yep.

Jo waits — just a second longer.

She kisses him on the lips.
He doesn’t quite meet her there.

JO
I’ll see you tomorrow morning?

Link doesn’t look at her when he answers.

LINK
(defeated)
You know where to find me.

The words aren’t unkind.
But they land wrong.

Jo feels it. Her face tightens - a flicker of something tightening in her chest.

JO
I hate leaving when I can clearly see that something’s wrong.

LINK
I’m fine. 

JO
I know something’s not right.

LINK
I am just tired. 

He nods once, like that settles it.
It doesn’t. She knows something’s off. 

Jo watches him — waiting for him to look back at her.
He doesn’t.

JO
Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
PT’s coming back in a few, right?

LINK
Nah.
You should go.
They need you more than I do right now.

Practical.
Final.

JO
Okay.
Just don’t push too much…

As he releases her hand, she feels it — him slipping further inward.

LINK
Tell the kids I love them.
and that we’ll call tomorrow.

JO
Okay..
Text me if you need me to bring anything tomorrow.

LINK
Yeah. 

JO
I’ll bring the books your mom picked up for you.

LINK
Thanks.

She stands. Hesitates — she doesn’t want to leave him like this.

JO
I love you.

A beat.

LINK
(drained)
…Love you too.

Quieter than usual.

Jo waits — just a second — for him to look up.
He doesn’t.
She turns and leaves.

Link’s jaw tightens.
For just a second, he almost turns toward the door —
then stops. 

If he looks at her, he might ask her to stay.
If he admits need, he becomes the version of himself he can’t tolerate yet.

The door closes softly behind Jo.
In the doorway, the PT passes her, nodding.

PT
Hey, Dr. Lincoln.
Ready to work on that grip strength?

Link doesn’t answer right away.
Link stays exactly where he is —
eyes fixed ahead, shoulders drawn inward, retreating further into himself.

FADE OUT.