INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

The room is quieter now.

Jo is wiping her tears with a tissue.
The aftermath, still visible.

She’s upright.
Holding herself there.

Link stands beside the bed, one hand resting on the mattress, fingers loosely laced with hers.

Present.
Not rushing. 

A knock.

Ndugu steps in, tablet tucked under his arm.
He stops short when he sees Jo’s face.

NDUGU
I’m sorry.
I can come back if—

JO
(shakes her head, tired)
It’s okay.

NDUGU
You sure?

She nods once.
Doesn’t have more than that.

Ndugu accepts it.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
I wanted to check in before I head out.

Jo shifts slightly, straightening. The effort visible.

JO
Okay.

Ndugu steps closer.

Ndugu glances at the monitor, then back to her.
Measured. Focused.

NDUGU
How’s your pain?

Jo shifts slightly.
A flicker of discomfort at her right shoulder.
Her hand lifts weakly toward the axillary site.

JO
(quiet)
It’s sore.
I can’t really move my arm.

NDUGU
That’s expected.
It’ll still be uncomfortable for a few days.

Another beat.
 
He glances briefly at the line site.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We’ll keep adjusting your pain control.

Jo nods.
Small.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
So I reviewed your labs and the echo from this afternoon.

Link stills beside her.
Listening. Protective.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Your EF is up about five percent from this morning.
 
Jo blinks, processing.
That’s concrete.
Measured. Careful.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
And your filling pressures are lower.
(a beat)
Your heart’s not working as hard to push blood through.

That lands.

Jo exhales. Small, but real.

Link’s shoulders drop a fraction.
 
LINK
(hopeful)
That’s good.

NDUGU
It is. 
(a beat)
The 5.5 is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.

A breath Jo didn’t know she was holding releases.

Ndugu gestures lightly toward her face.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
And if your sats stay this stable,
we can take the cannula off tonight.

A small beat.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
At this point, it’s mostly precaution.

That matters.

Jo nods again. Small.
But it shifts something.

A beat.

Then—

JO
(quiet, almost fragile)
When can I see my babies?

The room stills.
Link turns to her.

Ndugu doesn’t answer right away.
He really looks at her.
Weighing more than just the numbers.

NDUGU
If tonight stays quiet…
(a beat)
And your numbers hold in the morning—

Jo nods.
Doesn’t interrupt.
Holding onto every word.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We can talk about getting you down to the NICU.

Not a promise.
But close enough to feel like one.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
But short visits. 
You still need to rest.
 
A necessary boundary.
Silence.

Jo closes her eyes for a moment.

JO
(soft)
Tomorrow?

NDUGU
If the morning echo holds.
(a beat)
I don’t want to risk anything.

Link leans in, presses a soft kiss to her head.

Ndugu shifts back slightly.
Ready to go.

JO
I want to try pumping again. 

That lands differently.
Urgent.
Important.

Ndugu shifts slightly.
Careful now.

NDUGU
You can. 
(a beat)
Same as before — with supervision. 

Another beat.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
But Jo, you have to understand—

He stays calm. Grounded.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Right now, your body’s still recovering from two heart surgeries. 

Simple. Direct.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Anything that requires effort — even something small — can take more out of you right now.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
And we’re trying to keep the strain on your heart as low as possible.

He keeps it clinical.
Measured.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
So you really need to take it easy. 

Jo hears it.
But it doesn’t land.
She gathers what little energy she has left.

JO
(quiet, but firmer)
I have to start now.

She swallows. 
Energy already fading, but she pushes through.

JO (CONT’D)
I don’t want to lose that.

That’s it.
The real fear.
She almost loses it. But holds.

Link watches her.
He understands immediately. This isn’t about milk.
This is about holding onto something.
About staying connected. 
And he knows exactly what this costs her to say.

Ndugu studies her.
He hears it, but answers as a doctor.

NDUGU
We’ll have lactation come see you.
(a beat)
They’ll help you find a way to do it safely.

Jo registers it.
Still not fully satisfied.
But not dismissed either.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We’ll try.

Then back to his lane.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
But not at the expense of your health.

Not negotiable. 
That’s his boundary.

Jo nods.
Not reassured.
But respected.
 
NDUGU (CONT’D)
(Softer)
Now get some rest.
(a beat, softer)
Big day tomorrow.

Jo nods.
Barely.
But it’s there.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
I’ll see you in the morning.

He leaves.
The door clicks shut.

Jo opens her eyes again.

JO
(soft, almost afraid to say it)
Tomorrow.

Link takes her hand.
Firm.
Grounding.

LINK
Tomorrow.

They sit with it.
Careful not to break it.
A fragile promise.

Jo looks at him again.
Different now.
Clear.

JO
Now go home.
(a beat)
Please.

Link really looks at her.
He hesitates.
Just a fraction.
A week of not leaving her side sitting between them.

LINK
I’ll be back early.

Jo manages the faintest smile.

JO
I’m not going anywhere… 

That almost lands as humor.
Almost.

They hold hands a moment longer.
Then he leans in. Kisses her softly.

LINK
I love you.

JO
I love you.

Tomorrow, sitting between them.

He lets go.
Steps back.
Then turns and leaves.

Jo watches the door for a second longer.

Then sinks slightly back into the pillow.
Spent.
But holding onto one thing: Tomorrow.

FADE OUT.