INT. NICU — AFTERNOON

The NICU hums.
Machines breathing.

Alarms kept deliberately low.
Life sustained quietly.

Link stands between the two incubators.
Still. 

Hands loose at his sides.
Holding himself together.

Dr. Kasliwal joins him, already gloved.

KASLIWAL
How are you holding up?

Link doesn’t answer right away.
His eyes stay on the girls.

LINK
Worried.
(a beat)
But I don’t get to stop today.

Kasliwal studies him.
Gentle. Steady.

KASLIWAL
Jo's one of the tough ones.
(a beat)
Just like those two little fighters…

Link nods.
That lands.

LINK
She is.
(a beat)
But—

He doesn’t finish the thought.
He shifts slightly closer to the incubator.

LINK (CONT’D)
We’re here for them.

Kasliwal nods.
Grounded. Professional.

KASLIWAL
Okay.
(a beat)
Let’s start with Baby A.

She gestures to the respiratory therapist.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ll remove CPAP.
(a beat)
Watch her work of breathing, sats, heart rate.
If she struggles, we go right back on.

Not reassurance.
Protocol.

Link nods, absorbing every word.

The respiratory therapist steps in.
Hands steady.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Alright, sweetheart.
(a beat)
Here we go.

Link slides his hand through the incubator port.
Finds hers.

LINK
I’m here…
(a breath)
I’m right here.

The CPAP prongs are loosened.
Lifted away.
Faint red impressions linger on Baby A’s nose.

A beat.

Link forgets to breathe.

Baby A inhales.
Then again.
Her chest rises.
Small. 
Steady.
Her own.

The monitor continues its quiet rhythm.
Oxygen numbers hold.
No alarms.

No one speaks.
They watch.

Seconds stretch.
Baby A keeps breathing.
Link exhales.
Slow.
Like something inside him releases, but only partway.

His finger brushes her palm.
Her tiny hand curls instinctively around it.

Link’s breath breaks.
His eyes fill instantly. 

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
Hey.
(a beat)
You’re doing it.

His voice lowers.
Barely there.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m so proud of you.

Kasliwal watches the monitor.
She lifts her stethoscope. Brief, careful.

She listens.
Waits.
Checks again. 

Silence.

KASLIWAL
Okay.
(a beat)
Let’s keep watching.

Another stretch.
Breath.
Numbers.
Still steady.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She’s doing her work.

That lands.
Quietly.

Link nods.
Eyes still on her. 

LINK
Yeah.

A faint smile breaks. Fragile. Overwhelmed.
Kasliwal glances at him.

KASLIWAL
If you’re ready, we can do skin-to-skin.
(a beat)
Baby B can wait a little.

Link nods immediately. 

LINK
Okay.

The nurse brings a recliner.
Positions it beside the incubator.

Monitors are adjusted.
Lines checked.
Twice.

Kasliwal steps back slightly.
Giving space.

Link pulls off his shirt.
Sits.
Careful.
Still.
Waiting.

The nurse prepares Baby A.
Adjusts leads.
Secures everything.

Kasliwal assists.

Then, Baby A is lifted, gently. 
Still wired.
Still monitored.
Placed against Link’s chest.

A blanket is tucked carefully around them.
Skin to skin. 

His daughter against his heart.
Link stills completely.
Breath caught.

KASLIWAL
We’ll give you some time.
 
A privacy screen is wheeled into place.
The space softens.
Contained.
Quiet.

Link closes his eyes.
Relief hits— sudden, overwhelming.

Time stops.
For a moment, there is no surgery.
No waiting.
No fear.
Just warmth.
Breathing.
Her weight.

LINK
(whisper)
You’re so brave.

His throat tightens.

LINK (CONT’D)
Just like your mom.

He breathes with her.
Slowly syncing.

LINK (CONT’D)
She’ll be here soon.

He doesn’t push the promise further.
He stays there. 

A few minutes pass. 

Measured only by breath.
Eventually, reality edges back in.

His hand reaches for his phone.
Checks.
Nothing.

He types one-handed.

TEXT — LINK:
Any news?

He sets the phone down.
Eyes never fully leaving his daughter.

Time stretches again.

The phone vibrates.
He glances.

TEXT — BAILEY:
They’re still in there.
No issues. Just taking extra time to make sure everything’s right.

Link exhales.

Not relief.
Not fear.
Something in between. 

He places the phone face down.

After a while, a NICU nurse steps in and gently removes the privacy screen.
 
NURSE
Are you ready for Baby B?

Link nods.

He looks down at Baby A.
Still breathing on her own. 
He wishes he could hold them both at the same time.

Baby A is carefully settled back into her incubator.
She stays stable. 

KASLIWAL
We’ll keep her on phototherapy for now.

Link keeps his fingers wrapped around hers, one beat longer.

LINK
I’m right here.
(a beat)
I’m not going anywhere.
(another beat)
I’m just going to see your sister over there.
 
He puts his shirt back on and moves to Baby B.

Kasliwal is already there.

The setup is heavier.
More lines.
More support.

Kasliwal turns to him, slightly softer now.

KASLIWAL
We’re going to remove the breathing tube
and transition her to CPAP.

Link stills.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ll watch her closely as she transitions.

Link nods.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ve lightened her sedation for this.

She searches for Link's gaze.

KASLIWAL (CONT'D)
(softer)
I know you understand the medicine.
(a beat)
But as a parent—

She gestures gently toward Baby B.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
This part can be hard to watch.
(a beat)
She might look like she’s struggling at first.
(another beat)
Her oxygen may dip briefly.

She holds his gaze.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
That’s expected.

A softer beat.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
And that doesn’t mean she’s failing.
It means she’s trying to adjust.

Link nods.
Barely.

LINK
Okay.

Kasliwal nods back. 

KASLIWAL
Okay, little one.

The respiratory therapist steps in.
Precise.
Focused.

The tube is loosened.
Removed.

Baby B reacts immediately.
A sharp, instinctive effort to breathe.
Her oxygen drops.

Link freezes.
The monitor flickers.
Then climbs.

CPAP prongs are positioned quickly.
Her breathing catches once, then settles into the support.
Support resumes.

Kasliwal watches.
Waits.
Doesn’t rush.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She’s holding.

Not a victory.
A beginning.
 
LINK
Good.

Kasliwal meets his eyes.

KASLIWAL
Skin-to-skin can help her transition.

Link nods.
Immediate.

LINK
Let’s do it.

Link removes his shirt again and settles into the recliner.

The team works carefully. 
Lines are adjusted.
Checked.
Rechecked.

Then, Baby B is placed against his bare chest.
Skin to skin.

She’s impossibly small.
Warm.
Real.

Her breathing stutters once, then settles.
Link’s eyes fill instantly.

LINK (CONT’D)
(low, steady)
Hey.

He curls around her instinctively.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ve got you.

Her tiny fingers press into his skin.

Time slows again. 
No alarms.
Just breath.

LINK (CONT’D)
Daddy’s here.
(a beat)
You’re doing it.
 
He kisses her tiny head. 
Soft.
Careful.

LINK (CONT’D)
Your mom and I already love you so much.
 
His phone vibrates.
He checks.

TEXT — BAILEY:
Surgery went smoothly.
Impella 5.5 placed without complications.
Hemodynamics stable.
Planning extubation in PACU.

Link swallows hard.
Relief. Careful. Fragile.

He looks down at Baby B.

LINK
(soft) 
Your mom is incredible. 

A tear slip free.
Silent.
He lets it fall.
 
He glances toward the other incubator.
Baby A is still breathing on her own.

Both girls.
Still here.

His phone vibrates.
He looks immediately.

TEXT — LEVI:
Hey, Link.
I hope you're holding up. 
How did the surgery go? Any news?
♡♡

Link looks at the screen.
A thread of messages above.
Levi checking in.
On Jo.
On the twins.
On him.

Link locks the phone.
Sets it aside.

He’ll answer later.
Right now, he stays with his daughter.

MOMENTS LATER

The room is quiet.

Link is still holding Baby B.

He closes his eyes.
Just for a second.

Then his phone vibrates again.

He looks immediately.

TEXT — BAILEY:
She woke up briefly.
Heading back to the ICU in a few.

That lands.

Something shifts.

He exhales.
Deeper this time.

LINK
(whisper)
I am going to go see your mom. 
(a beat)
And she’s coming to you soon.

He kisses Baby B’s head.

He stays a moment longer.
Holding one.
Watching the other.

Joy.
Relief.
And the ache that Jo should be here for this. 

FADE OUT.