INT. ON-CALL ROOM — MIDDAY

Link wakes slowly.
Eyes still closed.

He shifts. The sling tugs.

His eyes flicker open.
Foggy.
He exhales.

Then it hits him.
On-call room.

Shoes still on.
Clock.
11:58 A.M.

He bolts upright.

LINK
No. No—

He grabs his phone.
No missed calls.
No messages.

Panic anyway.
He’s already moving.

INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

Link rushes in.
Stops.

Bailey sits beside Jo’s bed, speaking quietly.
Jo is awake.
Eyes open.
Heavy. Glassy. Tracking slowly. Unfocused.
 
Bailey notices Link.

BAILEY
Morning.

Link moves to Jo immediately.

LINK
Hey…

Jo’s eyes shift.
Slow.
But they find him.
Recognition takes effort.

He takes her hand carefully. 

LINK (CONT’D)
Why didn’t anyone wake me?

BAILEY
Because I told them not to.

A beat.
Link frowns.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
You needed the sleep. 

Link exhales. Guilt and relief colliding.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
She’s had company all morning.

She glances at Jo.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
She’s been in and out.
Short windows.

Link nods.

Jo’s eyes blink slowly.
She doesn’t seem to fully understand the words.
But she registers presence.

Bailey leans in slightly, lowers her voice.
Just for Link.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Before you ask —
I stopped by the NICU.

Link nods.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
They’re holding steady. 

He absorbs it.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
(smiling softly)
I’ll give you two a minute.

Bailey stands and pauses.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I’ll check back this afternoon.

She leaves.

The room quiets.
Just ventilator rhythm.

Link pulls the chair closer.
Leans in.

LINK
Hey, my love.

Jo blinks.
Slower now.
Her gaze narrows. Effortful focus.

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles.

LINK (CONT’D)
I crashed.
Hard.
I’m sorry.
(a beat, softer)
I’m here now.

Her fingers twitch.
Then her hand moves weakly toward her abdomen.
Instinct.
Searching.
Link sees it instantly.

LINK (CONT'D)
The babies are okay.

Her eyes lock on him.
Still fogged. Still afraid.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re in the NICU.
They’re being watched closely.

Her chest rises unevenly.
Tears gather at the corners of her eyes.
She can’t stop them.
She can’t speak.
He squeezes her hand.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re holding steady.

Careful wording.
Not too much.

The thought of placing even an ounce of worry on her right now is unbearable.

Her shoulders soften a fraction.

The door opens softly.
Iris steps in. 

IRIS
(soft)
Morning, Jo.
(even softer)
How are you feeling today?

She smiles at Link.

LINK
Hi.

IRIS (CONT’D)
I’m just going to check your incision, okay?

Jo doesn’t respond.
But her hand tightens around Link’s again.

Link squeezes back.

LINK
I’m right here.

Iris lifts the sheet carefully
Professional. Efficient. 

Jo winces. Small but sharp. 
Her breathing speeds.

Link stays anchored.
Iris finishes quickly.

IRIS
Incision looks clean.
Healing well.

A reassuring smile.

IRIS (CONT’D)
I’ll be back later this afternoon.

She nods to Link and exits.

Silence again.

Jo’s breathing picks up.
Not panic.
Overload.
Her eyes close deliberately. 
She turns her face slightly away from him.

Link notices.
 
He rises from the chair.
Moves closer.

LINK
We’re going to try to take the tube out later today.

He brushes his thumb slowly along her arm.
Grounding. 
It doesn’t fully settle her.

Her eyes drift, unfocused at first, then settle on the IV pump.
Relief lives there.

Her gaze lifts back to Link.

Not dramatic.
Not pleading.
Just overwhelmed.

He understands.

LINK
(to the nurse, quiet)
Can we increase the fentanyl slightly?

The nurse checks the order.
Nods.
Adjusts the drip — a small increment.

Jo exhales.
Her shoulders lower.
Not asleep.

Just less flooded.
Her breathing synchronizes more cleanly with the ventilator.

One tear slips free.

Link wipes it gently with his thumb.
He stays close, brushing her arm.
 
LINK
(soft)
I’m here.

The machines continue their quiet rhythm.

Jo doesn’t drift away.
She just rests.
And he doesn’t move.

FADE OUT.