INT. NICU — 2 HOURS LATER - MID AFTERNOON

Time has shifted. Softer. Thinner. 

The light is lower now.

Peyton rests back in her incubator now.
No CPAP, just the steady rhythm of the monitor above her.

Jo remains in the wheelchair between the two incubators.
Hattie rests against her chest, small and warm beneath the blanket.

Jo’s hand cups the back of her daughter’s head. Protective. Still.

Link stands close beside her, one hand threaded gently through the port, holding Peyton’s tiny fingers.

For a while, no one speaks.

The monitors keep their quiet rhythm.

Jo closes her eyes.

Breath in.
Breath out.

Her body feels heavier now.

Not emotionally.
Physically. 

Her arms tremble from holding still for too long.

A faint shake.

Her grip falters, just slightly, then tightens again.

Her incision pulls faintly every time she shifts.

A sharper wince this time.

Heat rises under her gown.

Her breathing shortens. 
She tries to deepen it.
It won’t.

No matter how hard she tries.
Her body doesn’t follow.

JO
(low, strained)
Link.
 
He turns immediately.

LINK
Yeah. 

She reaches for him without looking, her fingers brushing his wrist.

JO
(soft, unsteady)
Link—

Her voice thins.

That’s enough.
He sees it.

He withdraws his hand from the incubator and moves in front of her, crouching.

Both hands come up, one steady at her knee, the other lightly at her forearm.

He looks at her properly now.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey–
(softer)
You okay?

Jo nods.
Too fast.
 
JO
Yeah.
I just—

The word doesn’t land.
Her vision narrows. 
Her shoulders dip.
The lights blur.

The monitor behind her shifts. Not alarming, just faster.

She tightens her hold on Hattie instinctively.

LINK
(soft but firmer now)
Okay.
That’s enough.

A shift.

He turns slightly and signals the nurse.

Jo looks down at her daughter.

A flicker.
Recognition.
She’s going to have to let go.
 
JO
(soft)
Can you… hold her—

A breath.

JO (CONT’D)
just for a second?

Link doesn’t hesitate.

LINK
Yeah.
I’ve got her.

He puts his hands on his daughter, securing her.
No panic. 

The nurse steps in, calm and practiced.

Jo hesitates.
Just for half a second.
Her fingers tighten in the blanket, not letting go yet.
 
JO
Wait.

It’s quiet.
Not resistance.
Just… delay.

Everything stills.
Even the nurses pause.

She lowers her face to Hattie’s head.
Breathes her in. 
A small, unsteady inhale.

She presses a kiss there.
She lingers.
Too long for her body.

LINK
(very gentle)
Jo…

Then she nods.
Barely. 

The nurse lifts Hattie carefully.
The warmth leaves her chest.
The cold is immediate.
Too fast.
Like something’s been pulled out of her.

Her hands hover in midair, empty, before falling to her lap.
The absence hits her harder than the dizziness.

Her breath catches.
Doesn’t come back right.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey…

He’s already closer.
One hand slides up to her arm.
Grounding.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
Let’s get you back to your room.

Jo shakes her head.
And then it breaks.

Her breath fractures.
Sharp. Loud.

Uncontrolled.

The sound cuts through the NICU.
Not loud screaming, but raw.
Open.
Conversations stop.
A nurse across the room looks up.

The space stills around her.

JO
(through broken breath)
I can’t—
I can’t leave them again.
 
It cracks wide open.
Tears spill faster now. 
She folds forward, but Link catches her before she can collapse.

He understands exactly what she means.
The birth.
The separation.
The waiting.

He pulls her into him.
Both arms around her now.
Firm. Protective.

He closes his eyes for a second.
Like he can’t quite hold it together either.

When he opens them again, there’s something there—
a crack.
He swallows it down.
Stays steady for her.

LINK
Hey, hey.
I’m here.

She’s crying now.
Not contained anymore.

Her shoulders shake.

Her hands clutch at his back.
Holding on.

JO
I just got them—

Her voice breaks apart completely.

His jaw tightens.
Just once.

Then releases.

LINK
(soft, steady, close to her ear)
I know you did.
And you’re coming back.

She shakes her head against him.
Doesn’t believe it.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re not losing them again.

He presses his forehead to hers.
Holding her there.
Not letting her drift.

LINK (CONT’D)
(quiet, anchoring)
They’re right here.
They’re okay.
You’re okay.

Her breath is still uneven.
But slowing.

Little by little.

Time stretches.

He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t rush it.

Her body shakes once more, then eases.

He stays.
Longer than needed.
Until she can hold herself again.

He pulls back just enough to see her.
Hands still on her.

LINK (CONT’D)
You need to lie down. 
We need to get you back to your room.

A beat.

She doesn’t argue anymore.

She looks past him toward the incubators.

Peyton’s chest rises.
Hattie’s small body under the blue light.

Still breathing.
Still here.

Jo swallows hard.
Wipes her cheeks.
Doesn’t quite succeed.

She leans slightly forward.

JO
(to them, soft)
Mommy’s coming back.
(a beat)
Okay?

She tries to speak again. 
Nothing comes.

A breath.

JO (CONT’D)
(soft, breaking)
I love you.

Her voice trembles on the last word.

A nurse gently adjusts her monitor leads.

Link stands, moving beside her, one hand steady at her shoulder.
The other on the chair.
He unlocks it.

Jo looks at them one more time.

Holding it.
Memorizing.
Breath in.
Breath out.

Link begins to wheel her away.
A nurse follows them with the monitor. 

Jo doesn’t look away.
Not until she has to.

She breaks again. 

As they pass the threshold, it hits deeper.
Quieter this time.
But deeper.

The NICU doors slide open.

The hum continues behind them.

Ongoing.
Unfinished.
Alive.

FADE OUT.