INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL - ICU ROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS)

Link is still sinking under the weight of the news.
Jo feels it and breaks the silence gently.

JO
Do you need anything?

He takes a shallow breath.

LINK
Yeah.
(soft)
I want you to rest.

JO
I will…

Link hesitates, looking at her belly, the exhaustion in her eyes.

LINK
You should go home. Sleep there.

JO
I am not going anywhere for now. 

LINK
Jo… the babies.

JO
(small, fading voice)
I am not going anywhere.

He can see that she won’t budge.

A beat.

JO
I’m just… gonna close my eyes for a minute, okay?

LINK
(quiet)
Okay…

She gently releases his hand, then adjusts the recliner, lowering it just enough so she can lean back. She reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the chair and wraps herself in it.

Her eyes finally close — not a deep sleep, just her exhausted body surrendering after two days of fear and adrenaline.

Link watches her.

His breathing is uneven at first, then steadies as he focuses on her — on the fact that she’s here, safe, resting.

He keeps his gaze on her, the heaviness of the past 48 hours settling in behind his eyes, quiet and dense.

He stays awake, watching over her the way she watched over him.

Only when he’s sure she’s truly resting does he let his own eyes close — not from sleep, but from the need to shut everything out for a few minutes.

FADE OUT.