INT. NICU — LATE MORNING

The NICU breathes.
Monitors hum.

A soft, rhythmic clicking somewhere in the room.
Not loud, just constant. Unavoidable.

Jo is wheeled in slowly by Link.
She wears a pink gown, blue gloves.
Same as him.

A portable monitor follows close behind, pushed by a nurse.

Lines run from Jo’s left arm. Her heart rate scrolling steadily.

Jo doesn’t react at first.
Her eyes move.
Scanning. Searching.

Rows of incubators.
Tiny shapes wrapped in wires and blankets.
Too many.

It doesn’t land yet.
It all blurs together.
 
Finally, they stop.
Between two incubators.

Link leans in slightly.

LINK
(soft)
There it is.

Jo’s gaze catches.

—
BABY B — LINCOLN.
—

It takes a second for her brain to catch up.

Then it hits.

Too small.

Her breath catches halfway in.
She doesn’t let it out.

CPAP tubing frames the baby’s face.
Straps. Prongs. A soft hat holding everything in place.
 
Air moves in and out with a faint sound.
In.
Out.

The baby barely moves otherwise.
Just the rise and fall of a chest no bigger than her palm.

Jo goes completely still.
Her body locks.

Her right shoulder tightens involuntarily. A sharp flicker of pain she doesn’t even register.

Both hands grip the armrests hard.

The monitor behind her picks up.
A soft, insistent beep.

She folds inward.
Quiet at first.
Then it breaks.

Tears spill. Fast. Silent. Then heavier.

Her breath fractures.

A sob slips out.
Then another.

Link moves immediately.
He steps in front of her, fast, and drops down to her level.
Both hands close firmly around her forearms.
Holding her there.
Keeping her from folding further.

LINK
(low)
Hey… 

She shakes her head, unable to look at him.

LINK (CONT’D)
It’s okay. 
I’m here.
 
Her breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls.

JO
(through tears)
They’re so small.

The words fall apart as soon as they leave her mouth.

JO (CONT’D)
All this—

She can’t finish.

Her eyes squeeze shut.
Tears spill freely now.

Unchecked, crushing in their weight.

Link doesn’t wait.

He moves in closer, one arm wrapping around her, firm across her upper back.

He gathers her in.
Jo folds into him.

For a second, she doesn’t move.
Just lets it happen.

Then her hands come up, gripping the back of his gown.
Holding on.

A sound tears out of her.
Grief. Love. Shock. All at once.

Impossible to separate.

JO (CONT’D)
(choking)
I—

Nothing comes.
She can’t go on.

Link holds her there.
Steady.

LINK
They’re okay.
(a beat)
They’re not hurting.

It doesn’t fix it.
But it steadies something.

Her breathing stutters, then slowly begins to come back.
Not even.
Not controlled.
But possible.

Link doesn’t let go.
He shifts slightly to the side.
Making space.
Letting her look.

Jo opens her eyes.
Still against him.
Her gaze drops to the hand.
So small.
Tiny fingers curled in on themselves.

Skin almost translucent.
She doesn’t move at first.
Just looks.

Then
slowly
she pulls back.

Not fully.
Just enough.

Link’s arm stays around her.
Supporting.

Her right hand lifts, hesitant, trembling.

The movement pulls across her shoulder.
Pain.
She winces. Barely.
Pushes through.

She stays seated. 
Her fingers slip through the port.

She hovers—
not quite there.
 
A breath.

Then touches.

JO
(whisper)
Hi…

The word surprises her. 
She watches the tiny chest rise.

She wipes her face with her free hand.
 
A long beat.

Jo glances at Link.

He’s right there.
Still holding her.

He nods.
Small. Certain.

She turns back.

JO (CONT’D)
(soft, breaking)
Hi… Peyton.

The name lands quietly.

Instinctive.

Certain.
 
Right.

Link shifts slightly behind her right shoulder now, one arm still firm across her back.
Supporting.

The corners of his mouth lift, barely.
His eyes shine.

Something in his chest finally easing.

Jo doesn’t look away.

Her eyes stay on the baby.

JO (CONT’D)
This is—

A breath.

JO (CONT’D)
This is Mommy.

Her voice breaks on the last word.
Like she’s hearing it for the first time.

She swallows hard.
Tears fall freely. Dripping down her chin.

She leans forward, as far as the chair and wires allow.
Her forehead nearly touches the plastic.

JO (CONT’D)
(whisper)
I’m so sorry.

The apology is barely audible.
Link’s arm tightens around her.

He doesn’t correct it.
He just holds her through it.

After a moment, her gaze moves.

—
BABY A — LINCOLN.
—

Different.
Still impossibly small.

But the face is clearer.
No CPAP.
Lips visible.

A chest she can see moving.
Fragile. 
Fighting.

Blue light washes over the incubator.

She takes it in.
Understands.

Her breath catches again.
Quieter this time.

Link feels it immediately.

He adjusts.
Steps closer.

One arm wraps securely around her waist.

The other steadies her arm.
He doesn’t lift her.

He waits.

LINK
(soft)
Easy.

Jo inhales.
Tries.

Her body resists.
Her right side pulls, sharp.

She pauses.
Then pushes again.

A breath.
then another.

Then she’s up.
Barely.
Standing.
Weight uneven.
Leaning into him without realizing.

He carries part of it.
They take a small step together.
Slow.
Measured.

They reach the second incubator.
Jo leans in.

Her fingers slide inside.
Warm.
Real.

JO
(voice breaking)
Hi…

A breath. 

JO (CONT’D)
Hattie.

The name settles.
Lands deeper.

She presses her forehead to the edge of the incubator.
Eyes closing.
 
JO (CONT’D)
I’m…
(a beat)
I’m your mommy.

This time, the words stay.

Hattie’s fingers curl around Jo’s.
Tiny.
But sure.

Jo gasps.
Sharp. Startled.

A breath breaks into a small laugh, tangled with tears.

Behind her, Link stills.
His eyes shine.
One tear slips free.
He swipes it quickly.
Never looking away from her.

He leans in carefully, resting his forehead briefly against her shoulder.
Then straightens.
Still holding her steady. 

Jo turns toward him.
Overwhelmed.

JO (CONT’D)
I want to hold them.

It isn’t a request.
It’s a need.

Link nods.
Immediate.
 
LINK
Yeah.

He presses a kiss to her temple.
Stays close.
Supports her weight as she keeps one hand inside the incubator.
Fingers still wrapped around Hattie’s.
Connected.

The machines hum.
The world continues around them.
But here, time slows.
They don’t move.
They don’t speak.
They don’t let go. 
They just stay.

FADE OUT.