INT. ICU ROOM — NIGHT

Jo’s eyelids flutter.
Link notices immediately.

LINK
(soft, immediate)
Jo?

Her eyes open.
They stay open.

Her chest jerks sharply.

A breath that doesn’t work the way it should. 

Something is in her throat. Blocking. Forcing air.

Her eyes dart. Ceiling, lights, a room she can’t place.
Her body strains.

A sound tries to come out.
Nothing does.

The ventilator answers for her.
Her heart rate spikes on the monitor.

Link is already on his feet.

He moves into her line of sight, close enough that she can’t miss him.

Her hands lift — instinctive, urgent — reaching for the tube.
Link intercepts with his good hand.
Redirects. Not forceful.
He guides her hand down gently to the mattress.
Grounding. Not restraining.

LINK
(low, steady)
Hey. Hey.
Jo.
You’re breathing with help.
Don’t fight it.

She locks onto him, terrified. 
Her fingers curl in the sheet instead.
Her breathing stays frantic. The machine adjusts in response.

LINK (CONT’D)
(trying to stay steady)
You’re in the ICU.
You’re safe.
You need the tube right now.

The words barely register. 
The tube burns. Every instinct in her body wants it out.

An alarm chirps.
A nurse enters quickly.

Link doesn’t look away from Jo.

LINK
(clear, controlled)
She’s panicking.
(to the corridor)
Can someone get Dr. Ndugu, please? 

NURSE
Already on it.

The nurse is already checking the monitor.

Jo shifts — weak, disoriented — her hand drifting toward her abdomen.

Her eyes search past Link.
Around the room.
Faster now.
Searching.
For the bassinet.
There isn’t one.

Her breathing spikes again. 
Link sees it immediately.
He leans in.

LINK (CONT’D)
(gentle, firm)
Jo. Look at me.

Her eyes snap back to his.

LINK (CONT’D)
(grounding)
The babies are okay.

That lands.
Jo’s eyes widen.

Tears spill instantly.
Her breathing stutters, then slows just slightly.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re in the NICU.
They’re safe.

Her heart rate begins to ease.
Still high. But lower.

Her eyes never leave Link.

Then pain spikes again.
Sharp. Relentless.

Her body trembles.

She grabs Link’s arm and presses it.
Urgent, wordless.

Her breathing fights the machine again. 

LINK (CONT’D)
(to the nurse, controlled)
Can we give her a small fentanyl bolus?

The nurse nods, already preparing it.

LINK
(to Jo)
It’s going to help.

Her eyes squeeze shut.

A sound tries to escape.
Pain flashes across her face. Unmistakable.

Her eyes find his again.
Scared. Fighting.

A few seconds.
Too long.

The medication starts.
The pump hums softly.

Her shoulders begin to drop.
Not relaxed.
Just less rigid.

Her breathing synchronizes more with the machine.
Her eyelids grow heavy.

Link sees it. 
His jaw tightens.

LINK
(quiet, urgent)
I’m here.
I’m not going anywhere.

Her eyes cling to his.
Then focus slips.
She drifts.
Not asleep.
Sedated.

The ventilator settles into a steady rhythm.

The room quiets.

Link brushes her hair back carefully.
His hand trembles.

LINK
(low, almost to himself)
I’m sorry.

He swallows.
He leans closer.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’ll take it out as soon as your body’s ready.
I promise.

She can’t respond.

He stays there a moment longer. 
Watching her slip, calmer now, but still unreachable.

He just got her back.
And she’s already slipping away again.

Then slowly, he lowers himself back into the chair beside her bed.
He reaches for her hand.
Threads his fingers through hers.
He leans forward, forehead almost resting against the mattress.
And presses a quiet kiss to her knuckles.

His shoulders finally sag.

LINK
(soft, breaking)
I love you.

He stays.
Holding her hand.

The machines breathe for her.

The night stretches on.

FADE OUT