INT. HALLWAY — OUTSIDE OR — MORNING

Link waits in the hallway.

People pass through.

A nurse on her way past —
a small nod in his direction.
Soft. Meant.

Another, slower —
a brief touch to his shoulder as she goes.

Teddy, mid-stride.
She slows just enough.

A few quiet words.
He nods.

A look.
Steady. Certain.

Her hand rests briefly on his arm.
Then she moves on.

Webber next.
He stops.

Not long.
Just enough. 

He holds Link’s gaze.

A few quiet words.
Low. Certain.

A hand on his shoulder.
Firm. Grounding.

A small nod.

Then he moves on.

The hallway clears again.

Too quiet now.

A few minutes pass.

Link paces.
Stops.
Turns.
Paces again.
Three steps.
Half turn.
Again.

He drags a hand over his face, trying to steady himself before he loses control.
Trying to push away the memory of last time.

He’s still in scrubs.
Surgical cap gone.

One hand lifts to his shoulder — instinctive.
He rolls it slightly.
Tests it. 

A flicker of pain. 
A wince he doesn’t bother hiding.
He lets it sit.
Doesn’t fight it.

He closes his eyes for a beat.
A breath in.
Then out.
Again. 

A cart rattles past somewhere down the hall.
Muted voices.
A door closing.
Life going on. Unbothered.

There’s nothing for him to do here.
Nothing to fix.
Nothing to protect.
And that’s the worst part.

A voice behind him.

BAILEY (O.S.)
You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.

Link turns.

Bailey stands there.
Arms folded — not sharp.
Just looking after him. Present.

Watching him the way she always does.

Link tries for a smile.
Doesn’t quite get there.

LINK
(quiet)
We’ve been here before.

Bailey doesn’t argue.
She steps closer. Not comforting. Grounding.

BAILEY
They know what they’re doing.
(a beat)
And Ndugu wouldn’t have taken her back if this wasn’t the right move.

Link nods.

He knows that.
It doesn’t help.

A beat.

LINK
(quiet)
She was so scared in there.
(a beat)
So was I.

He swallows.

LINK (CONT’D)
I think she saw it.

Bailey follows his gaze to the OR doors.
Then back to him.

BAILEY
Standing here isn’t helping her.
(a beat)
Or you.

That lands.
Clean.
No padding.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
You should be in the NICU.

Link stills.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I heard they’ve got things happening today.

That hits harder than reassurance ever could.

LINK
Yeah.
(a breath)
Baby A might come off CPAP.
(a beat)
Baby B’s starting a trial.
Maybe skin-to-skin.
 
He says it like he doesn’t trust it yet.

Bailey nods.
She already knows.

BAILEY
That’s good.

A beat.

Her eyes flick to his shoulder.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
And you ditched the sling.

LINK
Yeah.
(a beat)
Jo already had a few thoughts about it.

Bailey almost smiles.
Almost.

BAILEY
Of course she did.
And she’s right.

She lets that sit.
Then softer. Still firm.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
PT is a mandatory stop for you today.
(a beat)
But first— 

She holds his gaze.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
(soft)
Go hold your babies.
They need you today. 

That’s the instruction.

Link looks back at the OR doors.
Once.
Longer than he wants. 

BAILEY (CONT’D)
That’s what she’d want. 

That lands.
Link nods. 
Decision settling.
 
LINK
Please—

His voice catches. 
He clears it.
 
LINK (CONT’D)
Text me the second there’s anything.

Bailey meets his eyes.
Steady.
 
BAILEY
You’ll know the moment I do.

Link nods.

LINK
Thank you.

He turns.
Starts walking. 
Doesn’t look back again. 

As he goes, his hand drifts back to his shoulder.
The pain is sharper now.

He keeps walking anyway.
Toward the NICU.

FADE OUT.