INT. ICU ROOM — MORNING

Morning light filters through the blinds.
Jo is awake.

Not drifting.
Not sedated. 
Awake. 

Propped slightly upright.
Oxygen tubing beneath her nose.

The ventilator is gone.
The room feels quieter without it.

Her throat is raw. Her lips dry. 
She swallows once and winces like it scraped on the way down.

Her eyes move to the monitor beside her.
Heart rate.
Blood pressure.
Impella flow.

She reads it automatically.
Clear.
No sedation haze.
The pain meds have been stepped down.

This is her.
Fully present, despite exhaustion. 

She remembers enough.
The rush into surgery.
The C-section.
The babies alive.
Link’s voice through the fog.

Her breathing shifts. Careful, controlled.
The door opens.

Link steps quietly into the room.
He stops for a beat when he sees her eyes open, focused, aware.

Relief hits him hard. He swallows it down.
He crosses to her bedside and leans in, careful of the lines, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

Jo closes her eyes briefly.
It costs her to stay upright.

When she opens them again, she studies his face.
A question is already there.

LINK
(soft, steady)
Hi.

She tries to answer.
 
JO
(hoarse, barely audible)
Hi.

The sound tears on the way out.
He sees it.

LINK
(voice low)
Don’t force it. 
Use the phone.

He places it within her reach.

Jo nods.
She tries anyway — stubborn, reflexive.

JO
…Are they—

The words fracture into air.
Frustration flickers. Quick, sharp.

She reaches for the phone.
Her fingers move slowly. 
Like everything weighs more than it should.

She types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
How are they?

Link doesn’t hesitate.
He sits closer so she doesn’t have to strain.

LINK
They’re okay.

He holds her gaze.
 
LINK (CONT’D)
They’re in the NICU.
They’re supported.
(a beat)
They’re both moving forward.

He keeps his tone calm, confident.

Jo searches his face for anything he isn’t saying.

She swallows again. It hurts.
Her chest rises faster.
The monitor ticks up — subtle, but visible.
She sees it.
She forces her breathing slower.

Link notices.

LINK (CONT'D)
Hey.
They’re stable.
(a beat)
You don't need to worry right now.
 
That steadies her.

She types again.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
What kind of support?

Doctor brain.
Link chooses his words carefully.

LINK
One’s on CPAP.
The other’s still on the ventilator.
 
He leans in slightly.

LINK (CONT’D)
No escalation.
They’re stable and improving. 

He doesn’t rush it. He lets her absorb.

Her eyes close for one second, calculating.

Prematurity.
Respiratory distress.
Time.

She opens them again.
Types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
Have you held them?

LINK
I have.
 
A softer breath from him.

LINK (CONT’D)
Skin-to-skin with one.
 
That’s when it hits.

Not the ventilator.
Not the CPAP.
Skin-to-skin.
 
They are real.
They are breathing.
And she is not there.

Her composure fractures, silently.

Her eyes fill instantly.
A tear slips sideways into her hair.

The monitor climbs again – a small warning tone. 
She inhales carefully.

She types again.
Slower now.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
What about the other one?

LINK
We’re waiting for her to settle a little more.
She’s getting there.

Jo swallows.
It hurts.

A beat.

JO
(hoarse, almost to herself)
She… shouldn’t have to do that alone.

It costs her to say it. 
Her voice almost gives out on “alone.”

Link’s hand tightens around hers.

LINK
She’s not.
(a beat)
The whole hospital checks on them when I’m not there.
And I go back and forth.
(a beat)
They’re not alone.

That steadies her, but not fully.
It doesn’t erase the ache.

Her eyes shine again.

She types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
I need to be there.

Her hand trembles slightly after she finishes.
Link leans closer.

LINK
You will be.
(a beat)
We just need your heart strong enough to get you there.

He wipes the tear from her cheek.

After a long moment, she types again.
Slower.
Heavier.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
I want to see them now.

She tries to say it too.

JO
(hoarse)
Now.

Just one word.

It scrapes.
He doesn’t shut her down.

He nods.

LINK
I know.
(a beat)
And we’re going to get you there.

He squeezes her hand gently.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
We just have to do it in a way that keeps you safe.

Jo holds his gaze.
It costs her — accepting that.

She sinks back slightly into the pillow.

Exhaustion crashes in hard after the emotional spike.

Her hand lowers.
Her eyes close.
Not asleep.
Just overwhelmed.

The sedation is gone.
The buffer is gone.

Everything is sharp now.

After a moment, she opens her eyes again.
Clear.
Present.

And fully aware of the distance.

FADE OUT.