INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OB UNIT – AFTERNOON

The room is dim now.
Lights lowered. Machines reduced to a steady, almost soothing hum.

Jo sleeps.
Her breathing is slow, even — the kind of sleep that comes when the body finally lets go.

The door opens softly.

Link steps inside.
He pauses just inside the room, taking her in — the monitors, the IV, the way one hand rests on her belly without thinking.

He exhales.
Moves closer.
He sets the bag down quietly. Pulls a chair closer to the bed. Sits.

Gently, carefully, he takes her hand in his good one and presses a kiss — a reflex, reverent.

He stays there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then exhaustion wins.

He leans back in the chair, still holding her hand.
His head tips forward slightly.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OB UNIT – AN HOUR LATER

Jo stirs.
Not alarmed — just surfacing.
Her fingers move.

Link wakes instantly.
Too fast. Like he never fully let go.

LINK
Hey.

His voice is soft, thick with sleep.

JO
(smiling faintly)
You made it back already.

LINK
Yeah.
You were sleeping really deeply.

He blinks, orienting himself — then squeezes her hand.

LINK (CONT’D)
I brought your stuff.

She glances toward the bag.

JO
Thanks.

LINK
I forgot the pillow, I'm sorry. 

She barely opens her eyes.

JO
It’s okay.
Next time you go home.

A beat.

She studies his face.

JO
Did you sleep?

LINK
A little.

Not a lie. Not the truth.

She squeezes his hand gently.

She shifts slightly, wincing just a touch.

Link leans forward immediately.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey—
You okay?

JO
Yeah.
Just uncomfortable.

She exhales, settles.

JO
How are the kids?
You didn’t tell them right?

LINK
I told them you needed rest.

JO
Okay.
I don’t want them to worry.
They’ve been through enough already.

LINK
They’re okay.

A beat.

She looks at him — sees the decision, not the fear.

JO
You don’t have to stay here all night.

LINK
I’m not going anywhere.

Not dramatic.
Not brave.
Just fact.

Her eyes soften.

JO
Okay.

Jo watches him for a moment — like she’s memorizing the fact that he’s here.
Then she exhales.

Her grip on his hand loosens — not letting go, just easing.

Her eyes close again.
Not asleep.
Just resting.

Link adjusts in the chair, careful not to move her hand.

He pulls the bag closer with his foot.
Settles.

The monitors continue their steady rhythm.

Link stays.

FADE OUT.