INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – LATE MORNING

Link sits raised in bed, steadier than before, though exhaustion and pain still tug at him.

Jo stands nearby, arms folded but soft, watching him with quiet encouragement.

A Physical therapist (PT) adjusts the bed angle.

PT
Okay, Dr. Lincoln. We’re going to try sitting on the edge of the bed first.
Nice and slow. We stay within what your body can tolerate.

Link nods, jaw tight.

The PT helps him shift. Pain flashes across his face — ribs, chest — and then something sharper as his right shoulder protests. He inhales sharply, instinctively protecting the arm.

LINK
(strained)
Okay… okay…

PT
Good. Just breathe. Let your body catch up.

Jo watches every breath, eyes soft.

PT (CONT’D)
In a few days, we’ll start working on grip strength.
But today isn’t about that.

After a moment, the PT steps in front of Link.

PT
If you feel steady enough, we’ll try to stand.
Just a few seconds, that’s all.

Link nods again, determined.

He places his feet on the ground. His legs tremble instantly.

The PT helps him rise. Jo steps closer, instinctively ready to catch him.

For two seconds, he’s upright.
Then his knees buckle. The pain slams through his ribs like a punch.

He gasps, collapsing back onto the bed with a sharp cry.

LINK
(breathless, angry at himself)
Damn it—

The PT steadies him.

PT
It’s okay. That was a good first step.

LINK
(frustrated, mostly to himself)
I can’t even stand for two seconds.

PT
Your body’s healing from major trauma.
This takes time. You know that. 

Link looks away, jaw tight.

The PT gathers equipment.

LINK
(quiet, pleading)
Let’s… try again.

PT
We will. Later. One step at a time. 

The PT guides him back against the pillows.

LINK
I’ve got it—

Jo moves in gently.

JO
Let me help you.

LINK
(soft, strained)
No, it’s okay… I can do it.

Not rejection. Just pride. Fear wrapped in control.

Jo backs off gently, giving him the space he thinks he needs.

The PT exits quietly, leaving Link slumped against the pillows.

Jo steps closer, careful.

JO
You did great.

Link lets out a humorless breath.

LINK
Yeah…
Doesn’t feel great.

Jo reaches for his hand; he adjusts the blanket instead, not pulling away intentionally — just overwhelmed. She notices.

A beat.

JO
Your mom called. 
The kids really want to FaceTime when you’re feeling up to it—

LINK
(too fast)
Not now.

Jo pauses, surprised but careful.

JO
Okay. I didn’t mean right this second. I just—

LINK
(voice cracking —not sharp, scared)
Jo… please.
Not right now.

His voice breaks.

Humiliation. Fear. Shame.

Jo softens instantly.

JO
Link… they miss you.

LINK
(quiet, ashamed)
I don’t want them to see me like this. 

He gestures vaguely — the bed, the tubes, his useless arm.

JO
They won’t care.

LINK
(low, almost whisper)
I know… I just…
I need a minute.
Please.

JO
Okay…

She respects his wish. 

LINK
I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated.

JO
(understanding)
I know…

Silence falls — gentler this time.
Not fragile.
Just tender and tired.

Jo places a soft hand on his arm.
He doesn’t pull away this time.

FADE OUT.