INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – NICU – DAY

The NICU doors slide open.

Sound hits first.
Monitors. Ventilators. Rhythmic beeping. Controlled urgency.

Link steps inside in a pink isolation gown, his sling wrapped over it, blue gloves pulled tight over his hands.

He looks immediately smaller somehow.
Overwhelmed by the space.
By the fragility.

The nurse leads him forward.

They stop.

Two incubators.

So small.
Too small.

Link doesn’t move.

He stares — frozen — like stepping closer might make this real in a way he’s not ready for.

The nurse waits. Doesn’t rush him.

Finally, Link takes a step.
Then another.

He leans in.

His breath catches hard.
His eyes fill instantly.

He presses his lips together, trying to stop it — failing.

These are his daughters.

So tiny.
Skin almost translucent.
Wires everywhere.
Machines breathing for them.

His hand lifts — hovers — unsure.

Like he’s afraid of claiming them.

He swallows. Tries to speak.

Nothing comes out.

His mouth opens.
Closes again.

He nods once to himself, like he needs to convince his body this is happening.

Tears spill silently, tracking down the side of his nose.

The nurse moves closer and gently guides him.

NICU NURSE
(soft)
You can touch them here.

She indicates a small opening.

Link hesitates — terrified of doing something wrong.

Then he slowly slides two fingers inside the first incubator.

They barely fit.

The moment his skin meets hers —

Her tiny fingers curl, almost imperceptibly, around his.

He breaks.

A sharp, silent inhale.
Tears spill freely now. No stopping them.

He bows his head, forehead nearly touching the plastic.

A long beat.

He wipes his face, breathing hard, trying to pull himself together.

He tries again.

LINK
(breaking)
Hi…

Another breath. Shaky.

LINK (CONT’D)
It’s Daddy.

The word cracks him open completely.

The feeling comes fast — overwhelming, unasked for — 
love, sudden and absolute, already there before he can stop it.

He moves to the second incubator.

This one is quieter.
Still.

Link’s breath stutters — just for a second — before he steadies himself.

He slides his fingers inside.

No reaction.

He doesn’t pull away.

Just stays.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re okay.
I’ve got you.

His voice wavers.

He swallows. Grounds himself.

LINK (CONT’D)
Mommy’s going to be here soon.

He says it like a promise.
Like he needs them to believe it.
Like he needs to believe it.

A wet smile breaks through his tears.

LINK (CONT’D)
You are going to have the most amazing mom. 

Another beat.

He stays there — hand still inside the incubator.
Unmoving.

Breathing finally slows.

For the first time since the gurney turned the corner, Link is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

A long beat. 

A presence behind him.

Dr. Kasliwal has arrived quietly.

DR. KASLIWAL
(gentle)
They’re already showing how strong they are.

Link doesn’t look away.

LINK
(soft, afraid)
They’re so tiny.

DR. KASLIWAL
They are.
And they are fighters.
Tiny little fighters. 

A beat. 

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Have you and your wife picked names yet?

The question lands like a bruise.

Link freezes.

This moment was supposed to be theirs.

LINK
I—

He can’t finish.

A breath.

LINK (CONT’D)
I can’t name them without her.

Dr. Kasliwal nods immediately. No hesitation.

DR. KASLIWAL
Of course.

A gentle solution.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
For now, we’ll call them Baby A and Baby B.

Link looks back at them.

Baby A.
Baby B.

Temporary.
Held.

LINK
(quiet)
They are supposed to have names.

Dr. Kasliwal lets the silence sit.

DR. KASLIWAL
Names can wait.

A beat.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Right now, they just need you.

That lands.
Link nods — barely.

He looks at his daughters with something fierce and tender all at once.

He stays.

Just stays.

Loving them already.

FADE OUT.