INT. ICU ROOM — EARLY MORNING

The room is already in motion.
Jo lies propped slightly upright. Oxygen in place. 

Her face is composed.
But her eyes track everything. 
A nurse checks the IV lines.
Another secures tubing with practiced hands.

The monitor hum is steady.
Too steady for how fast her mind is racing.

Dr. Ndugu stands at the foot of the bed.
Ben beside him, scanning the monitors.

NDUGU
Alright, Jo.
(a beat) 
We’re going to start prepping you.

She swallows.

The words come too fast.

JO
(her voice unsteady)
Where’s Link?

Ben answers gently, before anyone else can.

BEN
He went to check on the twins. 
(a beat)
I'm sure he’ll be back before we move you.

Jo’s jaw tightens.
Not enough.

Ben catches the look on her face.

BEN (CONT’D)
We’ll wait for him.
 
Ndugu meets her gaze.

NDUGU
You’re okay.
(a beat)
I do this all the time.

Ben rests a hand lightly on her arm.

BEN
We’ve got you.

Jo nods once.

That lands. Just enough.

A nurse adjusts a line.

NURSE
I’ll let Dr Lincoln know we’re getting ready to move.

Jo already has her phone.

Her fingers shake slightly as she types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
They’re prepping me now.
Where are you?

Send.
Jo stares at the screen.
Waiting for the dots.

Ndugu checks his watch.

NDUGU
We’re going to step out and get ready on our end.
(a beat)
We’ll see you upstairs.

Ben gives Jo a small, reassuring nod.

They leave.
The room feels bigger without them.

NURSE
Okay, Jo.
You’re all set.

Jo nods.
Not okay.
Her eyes stay on the door.

A beat. 
The door finally opens.

Link steps in, phone still in his hand.

He sees her face.
Crosses the room immediately.
Takes her hand.

LINK
I’m here.

Relief hits — sharp, physical — then tightens again around fear.

Link leans closer, voice low.

LINK (CONT’D)
I didn’t want to wake you. 
(a beat)
I went to the NICU.
And I called the kids.

Jo nods.
Some of the tension leaves her face.
Her eyes soften.

LINK (CONT’D)
Luna and Scout say to give you a big kiss.

Jo’s eyes fill.
She blinks it back.
Hard.

LINK (CONT’D)
And the girls are steady.

He doesn’t add details.
Just what she needs.

Jo nods.
Barely holding.

NURSE
Alright.
Ready to go?

Jo looks at Link, fear plain now.
Her grip tightens around his hand.

Link squeezes back, grounding.

LINK
(low)
I’m right here.

He presses a kiss to her knuckles.
The bed begins to move.

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — CONTINUOUS

The bed is moving.
The wheels hum softly against the floor.

Ceiling lights slide past overhead. One after another.

Jo’s breathing picks up immediately.
Fast. Controlled. Shallow. But slipping.

She isn’t crying.
But her eyes are glassy now — unfocused, fixed somewhere far beyond the ceiling, beyond the hallway.

Her body remembers this corridor.
Last time, there was shouting.
Urgency. Panic. 
Air hard to pull in.

No time to explain.
No time to think.
The day everything collapsed.

Her fingers tighten around Link’s hand.

Link walks alongside the bed, matching its pace exactly.
His hand locked in hers.

He remembers it too.
The moment they took her from him.
The sound of her crying fading as the bed vanished around the corner.

The silence after. 
Standing there afterward with nothing to do but wait and wonder if he’d see her again.

He feels it press in now, sharp and familiar.
He leans closer, voice low, steady. For both of them.

LINK
I’m right here.

He presses another soft kiss to her knuckles.

Jo swallows.
Her jaw tightens.
She holds herself together but her body betrays her.

A single tear slips free, sliding into her hair.
She doesn’t wipe it away.

Link sees it.
His grip tightens, not to stop her fear, but to stay with it.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He just walks with her.
Hand in hand.
This time, he’s not letting go.

INT. OR — CONTINUOUS

Minutes later. 

Bright lights.
Cold air.
That sudden, clinical distance.

They transfer Jo onto the operating table.

Across the room, Ndugu and Ben stand side by side.
Both still. Focused. They give them time.

The moment her back touches the surface, something breaks loose.
Her control slips.
Not panic. Not yet.
Just the end of holding herself together.
Tears spill quietly,
Unchecked.
Not dramatic. Not loud.

JO
(low, voice breaking)
I’m scared.

Link is already closer.
Dressed in scrubs. Surgery cap on.
Like he belongs here.
Except he doesn’t.

His hand tightens around hers. Instinctive.

LINK
I’m here.

Her tears keep coming. Silent. Relentless.

JO
(whispered, breaking)
Please don’t leave yet.

Link leans in. Close.

LINK
I won’t.
(a beat)
Not until you’re asleep.

Ndugu meets Link’s eyes.
A brief nod.
That’s it.
Permission. 

Ndugu’s eyes flick once to the monitors.
Ben’s jaw tightens, hands clasped behind his back.

This is not routine for them, even if they’ve done it before.
The weight of this sits heavy, even now.
They’ve been here before.

The anesthesiologist lifts the mask slightly, waiting for the right moment. 

Jo’s breathing is shallow now. Too fast. 
Link shifts closer, lowering his voice. Steady. Deliberate. For her. For himself.

LINK
Look at me.

Jo's eyes lock onto his like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
Everything else disappears.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re going to be okay.
(a beat)
And I’ll be right there waiting for you.

A breath. 
He gathers himself. 

LINK (CONT’D)
And then you’ll get to go and meet our baby girls.
(a beat)
And tell them how hard you fought to get back to them.

She breaks a little more.

LINK (CONT’D)
And then we keep going.
Together.

JO
(through tears)
I love you.

Link swallows hard.

LINK
(emotional)
I love you too.

A beat.

Ndugu steps forward — gentle, apologetic.

NDUGU
Link.
(a beat)
We’re ready.

Link nods.
He understands.
He hates it anyway.

He squeezes Jo’s hand once more.

LINK
I love you so much.

She keeps crying. Silent.
 
The anesthesiologist steps in.
The mask lowers.

ANESTHESIOLOGIST
Deep breaths for me, Jo.

Jo inhales, shaky.

Then another.

Her wet eyes never leave Link’s.

LINK
I’m right here.

Her grip loosens.
Her breathing slows.
Her eyes flutter, then close.

A beat.

The anesthesiologist looks up.

ANESTHESIOLOGIST
She’s under.

Link doesn’t move.
Not right away.

Jo’s hand is still in his.
Slack now.

No tension left in her fingers.
For a beat, he stays exactly where he is, memorizing her face.

Ndugu waits.
Ben waits.
Then Link looks at them.

LINK
Thank you… for this. 

They nod.
A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
(quiet, one last breath)
Bring her back to me.

Ndugu meets his gaze.
He nods.
Ben does too.

Link loosens his grip.
Slow. Careful.

Her fingers slip free.
He steps back.

The distance feels immediate.

The doors open.
His eyes are red. Glassy.

Last time she went through those doors, he almost lost her.

This is supposed to be different.
Controlled.
Planned.
Not an emergency.

He turns once — just once — before the OR becomes a room he’s no longer allowed to enter.

Then he’s alone in the hallway, his hand still remembering the shape of hers.

He exhales.
Not relief.
Not yet.
Just… waiting.

FADE OUT.