!!! NEW !!!!

NEW MISSING SCENES BATCH 22.7

Missing scenes between Episodes 22×07 and 22×08

>>> CLICK HERE! <<<

This page gathers all the missing scenes from Season 22 — scenes that take place between canon episodes, never within them, and are meant to deepen what remains unseen on screen. These missing scenes are designed to accompany the canon narrative and to gradually expand the story as it unfolds.

Missing scenes for Season 22 are currently available up to Episode 6, and new scenes will be added progressively, following the same chronology as the aired episodes.

Narrative Intent

When Love Is the Only Certainty

If Season 21 was about committing to each other and laying the groundwork for a shared future, Season 22 begins when that future is suddenly placed under life-or-death pressure, after a massive explosion leaves Link severely injured.

Season 22 missing scenes focus on resilience, rooted in recovery and its ripple effects.
They explore how love holds when plans are disrupted and when the future Jo and Link imagined becomes momentarily unstable.

These scenes examine not only Link’s physical healing after the explosion, but also the emotional consequences of trauma — how vulnerability, fear, and loss of control reshape the dynamics of the relationship, and how those shifts affect the people closest to him.

Rather than moving the relationship forward through milestones, the missing scenes focus on what it takes to hold things together when progress is slow and fragile. They explore how connection is maintained, protected, and sometimes strained, as the characters navigate exhaustion, fear, and the emotional weight of what is at stake.

The missing scenes planned for Season 22 aim to explore:

how sudden instability forces a recalibration of priorities
the tension between professional responsibility and deeply personal fear
the emotional cost of being strong for someone else while feeling powerless
how past wounds resurface under stress, even when love itself feels secure
the fear of losing oneself in the aftermath of trauma
how intimacy shifts when bodies, roles, and expectations are altered
how Jo absorbs, carries, and sometimes suppresses fear in order to keep moving forward
how vulnerability can become both a point of fracture and a point of connection
how partnership is tested not through conflict, but through endurance
how love adapts when certainty, control, and physical autonomy disappear

These missing scenes are not about rewriting canon.
They are about deepening it, by exploring what happens between episodes, and by tracing the emotional through-line of recovery, fear, and resilience that shapes the characters’ choices and ultimately leads them to the moments we see on screen.

Reading Guide

The Missing Scenes are part of a continuous reading experience that fills the emotional and narrative spaces left between what we saw on screen.

They are numbered according to the canon episode they follow.
For example, Missing Scene 22.6.3 takes place after Episode 22×06.

Below, you’ll find a chronological timeline listing all the missing scenes in order, allowing you to locate any scene within the season’s progression.

The timeline navigation anchors point to canon episodes.
Clicking on an episode title will take you directly to its recap section, which is immediately followed by the Missing Scenes that unfold after it.

From there, you can jump directly to a specific point in the season or simply scroll down and experience the story as it unfolds.

This structure allows you to experience Season 22 as an extended story, without rewriting or altering canon — only expanding what happens in between.

Episodes not mentioned here either do not include Jo or Link scenes, or do not add new layers to their story, and are therefore not part of this collection.

For a more immersive reading experience

Each canon episode is introduced with a gallery of screenshots highlighting key moments, helping re-establish the emotional context before the Missing Scenes expand what happens next.

A Jolink Stories Spotify playlist (the one that accompanied the writing of these scenes) is also available to set the emotional tone, if you wish to listen while reading. Open the full playlist on Spotify

Timeline

The timeline is a guide. The continuous story begins below. ↓

Episode 22×01 — “Only the Strong Survive” (Canon)

Link is gravely injured in the explosion, impaled and losing blood as the team carries him down the stairs for emergency surgery. Believing he might die, he calls Jo to tell her he loves her and their kids, before the call ends as he codes. Jo waits in fear, her blood pressure rising, until he survives a dangerous thoracotomy. When she finally reaches his bedside, Link moves his fingers as she holds his hand. Jo realizes he’s still fighting for their life together.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.1:

22.1.1 – Jo Stays by Link’s Side
22.1.2 – Jo Tells Link’s Parents What Happened
22.1.3 – Link Finally Wakes Up
22.1.4 – Link Learns the Extent of His Injuries
22.1.5 – Jo Falls Asleep at Link’s Bedside
22.1.6 – Link Has a Panic Attack
22.1.7 – Jo Keeps Link Company
22.1.8 – Link Fails PT and Refuses FaceTime
22.1.9 – Jo Goes Back Home
22.1.10 – Link is Moved to a Bigger Room
22.1.11 – Link Pushes Through PT and Jo Brings the Drawings
22.1.12 – First FaceTime with the Kids
22.1.13 – Link Asks About Monica Beltran’s Memorial
22.1.14 – Link Pushes Too Hard in PT
22.1.15 – The Crack Starts to Show
22.1.16 – Link Watches the Memorial
22.1.17 – Link Pulls Inward and Jo Feels It
22.1.18 – Jo Leans on Maureen
22.1.19 – Link Spirals Quietly

=> Read the Author’s Notes for this batch here.

Episode 22×02 — “We Built This City”

One week after the explosion, Link pushes himself too hard to recover, desperate to regain control before his daughters are born. His refusal to slow down leads to injury, anger, and a fall that drives Jo away. Alone with Owen, Link finally confronts his fear, rage, and sense of loss.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.2:

22.2.1 – Link Apologizes to Jo
22.2.2 – Jo Spends the Night
22.2.3 – Link Lets Jo Stay for PT
2.2.4 – Scout and Luna Visit Link
22.2.5 – Jo Hits Her Limit, Quietly
22.2.6 – Jo and Link Find Alignment Again

=> Read the Author’s Notes for this batch here.

Episode 22×03 — “Between Two Lungs”

Jo seeks Teddy’s help in finding a new car before her lease expires, expressing her struggles with Link’s slow recovery. While negotiating, Teddy breaks down over her divorce from Owen. Jo supports her, emphasizing the importance of happiness for their children. After regrouping, Teddy secures a better deal for Jo, and they share a moment of connection.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.3:

22.3.1 – Jo Visits Link Between Patients
22.3.2 – Link Walks the Hallway with Jo
22.3.3 – Maureen Worries About Link’s Release
22.3.4 – Jo Talks with Maureen Outside the Hospital
22.3.5 – Jo Misses Her Ultrasound
22.3.6 – Link Prepares for Discharge

=> Read the Author’s Notes for this batch here.

Episode 22×04 — “Goodbye Horses”

Link is discharged but struggles to accept his limitations. Drawn back into the hospital, he instinctively slips into surgeon mode during a trauma case, only to be reminded he can’t operate yet. Tensions flare with Owen, then soften. Link leaves still healing, restless, and moving forward—Jo and ice cream waiting.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.4:

22.4.1 – Link and Jo Leave the Hospital Together
22.4.2 – Link Comes Home to His Kids
22.4.3 – Jo and Link Find a Quiet Intimacy
22.4.4 – Jo and Link Talk About the Future
22.4.5 – Link Tells Jo She Should Rest
22.4.6 – Link Finds His Footing Again
22.4.7 – Talking About the Names – In Bed (BONUS)
22.4.8 – Talking About the Names – At the Table (BONUS)
22.4.9 – Talking About the Names – On the Couch (BONUS)
22.4.10 – Talking About the Names – In The Car

=> Read the Author’s Notes for this batch here.

Episode 22×05 — “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child”

Exhausted and running on fumes, Jo balances overwhelming labor cases and a growing conflict with Link over baptizing their babies. Treating a grieving, resistant patient deepens Jo’s empathy and clarity. Later, Link shares his childhood trauma with faith; Jo admits prayer as comfort. Their unresolved debate is abruptly overtaken when Jo realizes her water has broken.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.5:

22.5.1 – Jo is Admitted
22.5.2 – Link Goes Home
22.5.3 – Link Comes Back to Jo’s Bedside

=> Read the Author’s Notes for this batch here.

Episode 22×06 — “When I Crash”

Jo is hospitalized after her water breaks, initially stable but increasingly short of breath. Cardiology reveals peripartum cardiomyopathy. Despite medication, her condition rapidly deteriorates. As an Impella is prepared, both twins crash. With no OB available, Winston performs an emergency C-section, fighting to save Jo and the babies.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.6 (Part 1):

22.6.1 – After the Gurney Disappears

Episode 22×07 — “Skyfall”

Part 1 — The Emergency

As Jo’s condition collapses, Winston performs an emergency C-section. Both twins are delivered and rushed to the NICU just before Jo goes into cardiac arrest. Ben and Winston manage to resuscitate her and place a heart pump. Jo stabilizes but remains unconscious.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.6 (Part 2):

22.6.2 – Hour 1 – Someone Always Stays
22.6.3 – Hour 2 – The Information Avalance
22.6.4 – Hour 3 – Meeting the Twins
22.6.5 – Hour 5 – The Update
22.6.6 – Hour 6 – Back to Jo
22.6.7 – Hour 8 – Permission to Leave
22.6.8 – Hour 9 – Back to the NICU
22.6.9 – Hour 10 – The Call Home
22.6.10 – Hour 11 – A Brief Moment Alone

Part 2 — Twelve Hours Later

In the aftermath, Link is pulled between the NICU and Jo’s bedside as the twins face early complications and Jo’s heart shows no immediate improvement. Consumed by guilt and fear, Link struggles to hold everything together, leaning on those around him when certainty is impossible. Small signs of hope begin to surface — Baby B shows improvement, Jo’s heart function increases — and finally, as Link speaks softly to her, Jo opens her eyes.

=> Read the Author’s Notes for this batch here.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.7 (NEW)

22.7.1 – DAY ONE – Jo Wakes Up
22.7.2 – DAY ONE – Ndugu Checks on Jo
22.7.3 – DAY ONE – Bailey Checks on Link
22.7.4 – DAY ONE – Link Says Good Night to the Twins
22.7.5 – DAY ONE – Link Finally Rests
22.7.6 – DAY TWO – Link Wakes Up Disoriented
22.7.7 – DAY TWO – Link Goes to See the Twins
22.7.8 – DAY TWO – Link Gets Updates on the Twins
22.7.9 – DAY TWO – Jo Attemps a Beathing Trial
22.7.10 – DAY TWO – Link Steps Outside for Air
22.7.11 – DAY THREE – Link Gets Ready for the Day
22.7.12 – DAY THREE – Jo Gets a Morning Update
22.7.13 – DAY THREE – Link Holds Baby A for the First Time
22.7.14 – DAY THREE – Jo Faces Another Breathing Trial
22.7.15 – DAY THREE – Jo Finally Sleeps, Off the Vent
22.7.16 – DAY FOUR – Jo Wakes Clear
22.7.17 – DAY FOUR – Jo Asks to See the Babies
22.7.18 – DAY FOUR – Link Checks on the Twins
22.7.19 – DAY FOUR – Jo and Link Talk About the Babies’ Names
22.7.20 – DAY FOUR – Ndugu Decides To Increase Support
22.7.21 – DAY FOUR – Link Holds Jo to Sleep
22.7.22 – DAY FIVE – Jo is Taken to Surgery
22.7.23 – DAY FIVE – Link Waits in the Hallway
22.7.24 – DAY FIVE – Link Holds His Daughters
22.7.25 – DAY FIVE – Link Goes Back to Jo
22.7.26 – DAY SIX – Ndugu Talks Link Through Jo’s Condition
22.7.27 – DAY SIX – Link Gets Updates on the Twins
22.7.28 – DAY SIX – Link Calls Home
22.7.29 – DAY SIX – Link Goes Back to Jo
22.7.30 – DAY SIX – Jo Calls Luna
22.7.31 – DAY SIX – Ndugu and Ben Give Medical Updates
22.7.32 – DAY SIX – Jo Breaks Down After Link Leaves
22.7.33 – DAY SIX – Link Finally Comes Home
22.7.34 – DAY SIX – Link Spends Time With Luna Before Bed
22.7.35 – DAY SIX – Link Puts Luna to Bed
22.7.36 – DAY SIX – Link Talks to His Parents
22.7.37 – DAY SEVEN – Link Leaves for the Hospital
22.7.38 – DAY SEVEN – Link Returns to Jo
22.7.39 – DAY SEVEN – Ndugu Gives Medical Updates
22.7.40 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Meets Her Babies for the First Time
22.7.41 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Gets Medical Updates on the Twins
22.7.42 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Has Her First Skin-to-Skin
22.7.43 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Shows Signs of Fatigue
22.7.44 – DAY SEVEN – Link Calls Amelia
22.7.45 – DAY SEVEN – Maureen Calls Link
22.7.46 – DAY SEVEN – Link Holds Jo

Episode 22×08 — “Heavy on Me”

Jo recovers in the hospital after her complicated C-section and heart surgery while navigating postpartum hormones, motherhood, and loss of control. As her babies slowly improve in the NICU, Jo reconnects with her identity as a doctor, intervenes in a medical emergency, and ultimately unravels. She finally finds comfort and reassurance with Link.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Read the continuous story ↓

Back to timeline ↑

Episode 22×01 — “Only the Strong Survive” (Canon)

Jo manages to slip back into Grey Sloan through a maintenance entrance and finds Richard Webber, who has been ordered to stay in bed after the explosion. She is anxious and visibly shaken — Link was on the OR floor and isn’t answering his phone. Richard tries to reassure her, explaining that they are bringing Link down as fast as possible, but Jo can already sense that something is terribly wrong.

At the same time, Link lies on the OR floor, crushed beneath heavy debris from the blast. A piece of the ceiling has pierced his chest just below the clavicle. He is losing blood rapidly and cannot feel his right arm. With the elevators out, Bailey, Owen, Winston, and Ben have no choice but to carry him down several flights of stairs while attempting to stabilize him as his condition continues to deteriorate.

In the midst of the chaos, Jo receives a call from Link. His voice is weak and trembling, yet deliberate. He tells her that he loves her — that he loves their children — and admits he feels stupid for taking so long to say it. He gives her the location of his password book “just in case” and tells her to get a big dog to protect her and their girls. Before Jo can respond, he starts to code, and the call abruptly cuts out. Jo breaks down in Webber’s arms, realizing this may be the last thing he ever says to her.

Richard checks her blood pressure and finds it dangerously high. Jo is in shock, terrified she might lose the man she married only thirty-six hours earlier — the only real family she has ever known. Richard tries to ground her, reminding her that miracles happen every day and urging her not to give up hope.

Downstairs, Link undergoes a series of desperate interventions. The team decompresses his chest, transfuses blood, and ultimately performs an emergency thoracotomy when they discover his chest tube is clogged and internal bleeding continues. Teddy and Owen work together to locate and repair the bleed. Link has lost a massive amount of blood, but eventually, they manage to stabilize him.

When Jo is finally allowed to see him in recovery, the relief is overwhelming. She sits by his bedside, holds his hand, and tells him she loves him. Bailey admits she hasn’t seen someone fight this hard in a long time and believes Link stayed alive because he refused to leave Jo. Jo tells Bailey that Link has been her best friend for twenty years and means everything to her. The terror of the day hasn’t left her body — but for now, he is alive.

Later, as Jo sits beside him wondering what comes next, Link moves his fingers in her hand. She smiles through her tears as relief washes over her. The road ahead will be brutal, but he is still here — still choosing to fight his way back to her.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.1

22.1.1 – Jo Stays by Link’s Side

			
INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – MORNING
Jo hasn’t slept.
She sits beside Link’s bed, eyes heavy, posture folded in on itself from hours of fear. His hand rests in hers; she hasn’t let go once. Every so often, his fingers have twitched — small squeezes, faint reminders that he was still somewhere inside this stillness.
Now, as the machines hum quietly around them, Jo watches him with an expression worn thin by worry. Her eyes gloss over. A single tear slips down her cheek before she can stop it. She leans forward, her free hand brushing through his hair softly.
JO
(whisper, breaking)
I love you… 
I’m here…
The room stays steady. He doesn’t move.
The monitors hum quietly.
The sun is rising. 
A soft wash of pale light begins to spill through the blinds. Morning.
Jo blinks against the fatigue and glances at the clock. Luna and Scout should be waking up by now.
She exhales shakily, reaches for her phone, and types.
TEXT MESSAGE — JO → ELSA (BABYSITTER)
“Good morning… Thank you again for staying over. Link is in intensive care, still unconscious. I have to stay here. Could you take care of the kids today? I’m so sorry. I don’t have any other option right now.”
A few seconds later, her phone vibrates.
TEXT BACK — ELSA (BABYSITTER)
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I hope everything will be okay. Of course I can take care of them. I’ll cancel my plans. Whatever you need.”
Another vibration. 
“They just woke up and are having breakfast. Here they are :)” (Photo of Luna and Scout eating breakfast, smiling at the camera.)
“Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got them.”
Jo’s eyes soften. Her shoulders drop a fraction, the smallest relief in an ocean of fear. She types back quickly.
TEXT — JO
“Thank you. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll keep you posted.”
She sets her phone down, wipes her face with the back of her hand, and squeezes Link’s fingers again with both hands — as if willing him to come back to her.
She stays like that — steady, quiet, exhausted, holding on. Waiting for him to come back to her. 
FADE OUT.

		

22.1.2 – Jo Tells Link’s Parents What Happened

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – MORNING

Jo rests her forehead against the edge of Link’s bed, her hand still wrapped loosely around his. Exhaustion pulls at her like gravity. She isn’t sleeping; she’s simply letting her body go still.

She knows she still has to speak to Link’s parents who haven’t called her back yet.

The thought alone tightens her chest.
Her phone vibrates.

Sharp. Sudden. Too loud for her nerves.
Maureen.

Jo’s breath stutters. She pushes herself upright, legs unsteady, and slips into the hallway. 

She cannot outrun this moment.

MAUREEN
(worried, breath tight)
Hi Jo. I got your text.
Is everything alright?

JO
(swallows hard, tries to speak)
Maureen, it’s—

Her voice breaks cleanly in half. She presses her hand over her mouth.

JO (CONT’D)
It’s Link… something happened—

But the rest won’t come out.

MAUREEN
Jo? Honey, what happened?

Jo’s throat closes. She shakes her head even though Maureen can’t see it. Tears sting her eyes. Her breath is thin, uneven. She can’t do this.

Ben Warren turns the corner, heading toward the ICU. He sees her instantly — frozen posture, wet eyes — and slows.

JO
(whispering, pleading)
It’s Link’s mom. I… I can’t—

BEN
(soft, already stepping closer)
Okay. I’ve got it.

He holds out his hand.
 
BEN
Let me take it.

Jo nods gratefully and gives him the phone. Her hand trembles as it lets go.

BEN
(doctor voice, calm and controlled)
Hi Mrs. Lincoln, this is Dr. Ben Warren. I was part of the team that operated on your son.

MAUREEN
(breath hitching)
Oh my God…
(to her husband, off-phone)
Eric—Eric, something happened to Link.

ERIC
(faint, panicked)
What? What happened?

BEN
There was an explosion at the hospital. Link was injured, severely, but we were able to stabilize him. He’s in intensive care now. He’s holding his own.

MAUREEN
(in shock)
Oh my god, is he gonna be okay?

BEN
He’s stable now, ma’am.
We’re watching him closely. 

MAUREEN
We just left the hotel. 
We’re turning back. 
We’re coming right to the hospital.

BEN
I’m sorry, ma’am. The building is still locked down because of the explosion.
No one can enter for now.

MAUREEN
What about Jo?
Is she okay?

Ben turns, offering the phone back.

Jo wipes her face with the back of her hand and reaches for the phone.

JO
(voice soft, raw)
Maureen… I’m fine. 
I’m with him. I’m not leaving.

She swallows.

JO (CONT’D)
The babysitter’s staying with Luna and Scout today, but—
(Her voice wavers)
Could you go to the apartment? Take care of them until I can get home?
You can use the spare room.

MAUREEN
Of course we will.
(beat)
Jo… is Link going to be okay?
Is he awake?

Jo closes her eyes.

JO
Not yet.
They’re keeping him in a medically induced coma, for now.
His body needs time to recover.
And… he has a long road ahead of him.

A quiet gasp on the line.

MAUREEN
Oh god…

JO
Please… don’t say anything to the kids yet.
Not until we know more.

MAUREEN
Okay.
You call us the second he wakes up.

JO
I will.
Thank you, Maureen.

Jo’s arm drops to her side. The adrenaline drains out of her all at once. Her knees soften.
Ben is still there.

BEN
(quiet, grounding)
Hey.
Look at me.

She lifts her eyes, barely holding herself upright.

BEN
He made it through surgery.
He’s stable.
And he’s got the entire hospital watching over him.

A beat.

BEN (CONT’D)
You hear me?

Jo lets out a shaky breath — the kind that hurts on its way out.

Ben places a steady hand on her shoulder.

She leans into him without thinking, and he pulls her into a brief, solid hug — the kind meant to keep someone standing.

BEN
You’re not alone in this.
We’ve got him.
And we’ve got you.

Jo nods, eyes closed.

JO
Thank you…
Then she straightens, wipes her cheeks, and goes back to Link’s room.

FADE OUT.

22.1.3 – Link Finally Wakes Up

2 days later...

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – NIGHT

The room is dim, quiet except for the steady beeping of monitors.

Link lies motionless, pale, breathing on his own now — a sign things are improving. The sedation has been lifted, but he hasn’t woken yet. 

Jo is curled in the chair beside him, fingers laced with his.

She hasn’t left except to shower and change. She’s slept in short, restless snatches, always half-awake, tuned to every shift in his breathing.

Her head rests near his arm; exhaustion makes her breath shallow and uneven.

Link stirs — a tiny shift — then a weak squeeze of her hand.

Jo’s eyes snap open. She sees his lids fluttering, his eyes beginning to open.

A breath leaves her body like she’s finally exhaling after two relentless days.

She leans in, eyes shining with relief.

JO
(soft, breaking)
Hey, baby.

LINK
(blinking slowly)
Hey...

His voice is hoarse, barely there.

Jo starts to cry quietly. Tears of pure relief, no words needed.

LINK
(weak, whispering, confused)
How long… was I out?

JO
Almost two days.

He studies her face — the exhaustion, the rawness, the fear she hasn’t let go of yet.

LINK
(gathering strength)
How long since you slept?

JO
(small, tired smile)
I’ve been right here.

That hits him. Hard. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

LINK
The kids…?

JO
Your parents. They’re with them.
Everyone’s okay.

A tear slips from the corner of her eye.

JO
Do you remember what happened?

Link tries to nod, but winces, then breathes carefully.

LINK
(voice breaking)
Yeah…
(a long, silent beat)
I love you.
That’s all I’ve got right now.

Jo’s face crumples. She leans closer, forehead almost touching his.

JO
You scared the hell out of me.

LINK
(pained whisper)
I’m sorry…

His eyes search hers — fragile, scared, trusting.

LINK
Everything’s… okay now?

JO
(firm, emotional)
Everything’s fine now.
You’re here. That’s all that matters.

A long silence. The good kind. Warm. Fragile. 

LINK
(whispering)
I just… want to hold you.

Jo stands slowly, careful not to disturb any lines, and cups his face. She kisses him — gentle, grounding.

JO
I love you.

LINK
I love you.

A quiet, emotional moment passes between them.

She brushes his hair back, her fingers trembling.

JO
I’ll call the nurse to let them know you’re awake.

LINK
My body hurts from everywhere… 

JO 
We’ll give you something for the pain. 

She squeezes his hand, grounding him again.

FADE OUT.

22.1.4 – Link Learns the Extent of His Injuries

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – NIGHT (CONTINUOUS)

A few minutes after Jo presses the call button, Owen Hunt enters the room quietly, followed by Ben. 
He pauses when he sees Link awake and exhales in relief.

OWEN
Hey… look who’s finally with us.

Link forces a small smile. Jo straightens a little, still perched on the edge of his bed, her hand resting on his neck in silent support.

LINK
(clears throat, weak)
Hey, Hunt.

OWEN
How’re you feeling?

LINK
Tired.
(confused)
Hurts… everywhere. 
But at least I’m here.
I hear I have you to thank for it. 

OWEN
(light joke)
You have the whole hospital to thank for it. 
That room was pretty crowded.

They all share a soft smile — a brief easing of the tension.

LINK
Yeah…

Owen and Ben exchange a quiet look before Owen turns back to him.

OWEN
(more serious)
You’ve been through a lot.

He steps closer, glancing at Jo, silently checking whether he should proceed. 

She nods.

Owen’s expression shifts, then he gestures subtly to Ben.

BEN
(soft, steady)
Okay. We are going to talk you through what happened… and what we had to do.

Link’s body tightens, almost imperceptibly. Jo notices and gently takes his hand.

LINK
(concerned)
Alright.

BEN
The explosion caused a piece of the ceiling to penetrate just below your clavicle — pretty deep.
We had to perform an emergency thoracotomy to control the bleeding and repair a laceration to your subclavian artery.
You also had tears in the intercostal muscles and a lung laceration.

Link swallows hard, absorbing the words.

OWEN
You also suffered multiple rib fractures.

BEN
Your body took a serious hit. But you fought through it.

Link lets the news sink in.

LINK
Okay… 
How long till I can get out of this bed?

OWEN
Easy, tiger.
You lost a lot of blood, and your body needs time.
You know that better than anyone. 
We’ll take it one step at a time.

Link closes his eyes briefly, overwhelmed.

A beat.

LINK
We have babies on the way.

Jo squeezes his hand, soft but steady.

JO
Baby, we have time. 

He nods faintly, letting that anchor him.

A moment later:

LINK
Were there… any more people injured?

Owen and Jo exchange that terrible, quiet look.

OWEN
Your patient didn’t make it. 
And Monica Beltran…

A beat.

A long, heavy, suffocating beat.

LINK
(quiet)
God…

Ben lowers his eyes.

LINK
What… what caused the explosion?

OWEN
Acetylene tank. Emptied in the OR.

Ben steps in gently, voice softening.

BEN
You’re alive, Link.
That’s what matters right now.
 
Link nods, but it’s automatic, not truly absorbed.

OWEN
One step at a time, okay?

LINK
(distraught)
Yeah…

OWEN
I’ll be back in the morning.
Get some rest. Both of you.

JO
(quiet)
Thank you… 

Ben gives Jo a reassuring glance before they exit.
The door closes softly behind them.

Silence settles.

Jo stays close as she watches the shock settle into Link’s body.

JO
(softly)
Link…

He doesn’t answer.
 
The weight of everything — the injuries, the deaths, the months ahead — sinks in all at once.

JO
Hey…
I’m right here.

She gently touches his hair again, slow and grounding.

JO
You’re here.
And I know some little monsters who can’t wait to hear your voice.

Link nods faintly, but he’s drifting — not to sleep, but into the shock of a reality he can’t yet hold.

Jo stays with him, steady, anchoring him to something solid as his world tilts.

FADE OUT.

22.1.5 – Jo Falls Asleep at Link’s Bedside

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL - ICU ROOM - NIGHT (CONTINUOUS)

Link is still sinking under the weight of the news.
Jo feels it and breaks the silence gently.

JO
Do you need anything?

He takes a shallow breath.

LINK
Yeah.
(soft)
I want you to rest.

JO
I will…

Link hesitates, looking at her belly, the exhaustion in her eyes.

LINK
You should go home. Sleep there.

JO
I am not going anywhere for now. 

LINK
Jo… the babies.

JO
(small, fading voice)
I am not going anywhere.

He can see that she won’t budge.

A beat.

JO
I’m just… gonna close my eyes for a minute, okay?

LINK
(quiet)
Okay…

She gently releases his hand, then adjusts the recliner, lowering it just enough so she can lean back. She reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the chair and wraps herself in it.

Her eyes finally close — not a deep sleep, just her exhausted body surrendering after two days of fear and adrenaline.

Link watches her.

His breathing is uneven at first, then steadies as he focuses on her — on the fact that she’s here, safe, resting.

He keeps his gaze on her, the heaviness of the past 48 hours settling in behind his eyes, quiet and dense.

He stays awake, watching over her the way she watched over him.

Only when he’s sure she’s truly resting does he let his own eyes close — not from sleep, but from the need to shut everything out for a few minutes.

FADE OUT.

22.1.6 – Link Has a Panic Attack

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – LATE NIGHT

The room is still and dim, lit only by the monitors and the faint glow from the hallway.

Jo sleeps in the recliner beside Link. She’s finally let herself drift.

Link sleeps, too. Shallow. Restless breathing. His face tight even in unconsciousness.

A faint twitch.

Then another.

His breath catches.

Suddenly, he jerks awake, eyes wide, chest heaving as if pulled violently from a nightmare.

For a second, he has no idea where he is.

The ceiling.
The shadows.
The tangle of lines and tubing.
It all hits him wrong.

He tries to inhale and pain slices through him, sharp and brutal.

His heart spikes on the monitor.

LINK
(gasping, terrified)
No—no, no, no—

His breaths are fast, uneven, ragged — each one hurts, which makes him panic more.
The beeping accelerates.

Jo’s eyes fly open.

JO
(blurry, half-asleep)
Link…?

His chest rises too fast — too many breaths, too shallow.

LINK
(strangled whisper)
I can’t— I can’t—

He tries to sit up; the pain slams him back, worsening the panic.

JO
(fully awake now, urgent but soft)
Baby, look at me.

He can’t. He’s spiraling, trapped between physical agony and blind fear.

JO
Link.
You’re safe. You’re at the hospital.
You’re okay. Look at me.

But he squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed.

LINK
I can’t breathe—
It hurts so bad.

He’s hyperventilating. Pain and panic fuse into one unbearable sensation.

Jo reaches for his face gently, cupping his cheek.

JO
Baby, focus on my voice.
You’re here. You’re safe.
We’ll give you something for the pain.

Jo hits the call button with her free hand.

His breaths are still too fast, but his eyes flicker toward her — searching for something solid.

JO
It’s okay. Just breathe.
I’ve got you.

A NURSE rushes in.

NURSE
Pain spike?

Jo nods quickly.

JO
He woke up terrified — he’s in pain.
 
Link is still trapped between pain and panic.

LINK
(hoarse, panicked)
It hurts— 

The nurse adjusts the IV quickly.

NURSE
We’re giving you something for the pain and anxiety, okay?
You’ll feel it in a few seconds.

Link’s eyes are glassy, chest still rising too fast.
Jo threads her fingers through his, grounding him with touch.

JO
I’ve got you.
You’re safe.
Just breathe with me. I’m right here.

He tries.
The medication begins to work after a couple of minutes.

His breaths slow slightly. The raw panic in his eyes softens into exhaustion.

The nurse keeps a hand on the IV pump, monitoring the drip.

NURSE
That’s it, Dr. Lincoln.
You’re doing okay.

He sags back into the pillow, breaths still unsteady but no longer gasping.
Finally, his eyes lock on Jo’s — exhausted and confused.

JO
You’re okay.
It’s the pain talking.
I am right here. 

Jo leans closer, touching her forehead to his gently, careful of everything.

JO
You’re safe now.
It’s okay.

His breathing settles — fragile but steady.
He drifts, not into true sleep, but into a calmer haze, still clinging to her voice.

Jo stays where she is, her hand in his, watching his chest rise and fall until she’s certain he’s truly settled.

FADE OUT.

22.1.7 – Jo Keeps Link Company

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – MORNING

Link lies propped slightly upright, looking less pale than the night before but still exhausted.

Jo sits in the recliner pulled close to his bed, knees tucked under a blanket.

LINK
(soft smile)
You don’t have to stay with me all day.
You should go home and rest.

JO
Oh, you’re not getting rid of me. 
(beat, teasing)
But you owe me a better honeymoon than this.

Link lets out a faint breath of a laugh, wincing only slightly.

LINK
Yeah… we are definitely due a proper honeymoon.
When I’m out of this bed, I swear...
I’ll take you anywhere you want.

JO
Anywhere with a beach.
Peace and quiet.

Link smiles — a real one this time, small but warm.

LINK
Deal.

Jo stands slowly, leaning over him with care.
She presses a soft kiss to his lips, then pulls back just enough to meet his eyes.

JO
I’m not going anywhere today.
I’ll go home tonight to check on the kids.

LINK
Okay…  What did you tell them?

JO
Your mom told them you fell down the stairs. 
If it keeps them from rushing down the stairs at home, I’ll take it.

Link huffs a soft laugh.

LINK
yeah…

JO
Your mom wants to Facetime once you feel up to it?

LINK
(sighs)
Okay. Maybe later.
I don’t want them to see me like this for now. 

JO
(soft)
Okay.
Whenever you’re ready.

Jo reaches for his arm, her touch gentle and reassuring.

FADE OUT.

22.1.8 – Link Fails PT and Refuses FaceTime

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – LATE MORNING

Link sits raised in bed, steadier than before, though exhaustion and pain still tug at him.

Jo stands nearby, arms folded but soft, watching him with quiet encouragement.

A Physical therapist (PT) adjusts the bed angle.

PT
Okay, Dr. Lincoln. We’re going to try sitting on the edge of the bed first.
Nice and slow. We stay within what your body can tolerate.

Link nods, jaw tight.

The PT helps him shift. Pain flashes across his face — ribs, chest — and then something sharper as his right shoulder protests. He inhales sharply, instinctively protecting the arm.

LINK
(strained)
Okay… okay…

PT
Good. Just breathe. Let your body catch up.

Jo watches every breath, eyes soft.

PT (CONT’D)
In a few days, we’ll start working on grip strength.
But today isn’t about that.

After a moment, the PT steps in front of Link.

PT
If you feel steady enough, we’ll try to stand.
Just a few seconds, that’s all.

Link nods again, determined.

He places his feet on the ground. His legs tremble instantly.

The PT helps him rise. Jo steps closer, instinctively ready to catch him.

For two seconds, he’s upright.
Then his knees buckle. The pain slams through his ribs like a punch.

He gasps, collapsing back onto the bed with a sharp cry.

LINK
(breathless, angry at himself)
Damn it—

The PT steadies him.

PT
It’s okay. That was a good first step.

LINK
(frustrated, mostly to himself)
I can’t even stand for two seconds.

PT
Your body’s healing from major trauma.
This takes time. You know that. 

Link looks away, jaw tight.

The PT gathers equipment.

LINK
(quiet, pleading)
Let’s… try again.

PT
We will. Later. One step at a time. 

The PT guides him back against the pillows.

LINK
I’ve got it—

Jo moves in gently.

JO
Let me help you.

LINK
(soft, strained)
No, it’s okay… I can do it.

Not rejection. Just pride. Fear wrapped in control.

Jo backs off gently, giving him the space he thinks he needs.

The PT exits quietly, leaving Link slumped against the pillows.

Jo steps closer, careful.

JO
You did great.

Link lets out a humorless breath.

LINK
Yeah…
Doesn’t feel great.

Jo reaches for his hand; he adjusts the blanket instead, not pulling away intentionally — just overwhelmed. She notices.

A beat.

JO
Your mom called. 
The kids really want to FaceTime when you’re feeling up to it—

LINK
(too fast)
Not now.

Jo pauses, surprised but careful.

JO
Okay. I didn’t mean right this second. I just—

LINK
(voice cracking —not sharp, scared)
Jo… please.
Not right now.

His voice breaks.

Humiliation. Fear. Shame.

Jo softens instantly.

JO
Link… they miss you.

LINK
(quiet, ashamed)
I don’t want them to see me like this. 

He gestures vaguely — the bed, the tubes, his useless arm.

JO
They won’t care.

LINK
(low, almost whisper)
I know… I just…
I need a minute.
Please.

JO
Okay…

She respects his wish. 

LINK
I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated.

JO
(understanding)
I know…

Silence falls — gentler this time.
Not fragile.
Just tender and tired.

Jo places a soft hand on his arm.
He doesn’t pull away this time.

FADE OUT.

22.1.9 – Jo Goes Back Home

INT. LINK & JO’S APARTMENT – EARLY EVENING

The apartment is warm, softly lit.

Children’s toys are scattered across the living room, the familiar chaos of home — a reminder that life has continued here, even as everything else shifted.

Jo steps inside quietly. She exhales a shaky breath.

LUNA
Mommy! 

She beams at Jo with pure, innocent joy.

Luna and Scout sit cross-legged on the floor with Eric, Link's dad, who is helping them sort through crayons and half-finished drawings.

Maureen appears from the kitchen, gentle concern already in her eyes.

MAUREEN
How is he?

Jo sets down her bag, trying to smile.

JO
He’s fine. But it’s hard on him.

Maureen nods knowingly.

MAUREEN
The kids made something for him.

She gestures toward the coffee table, where bright drawings with messy “DADDY” scribbles are spread out everywhere.

Luna looks up first, eyes hopeful.

LUNA
Mommy! Can you give our drawings to Daddy?

Jo kneels down beside them, smiling softly.

JO
Of course, sweetheart. 
He’s going to love them.

Scout crawls closer, tugging gently at her sleeve.

SCOUT
Can we call Daddy now?

Jo’s breath catches.
She forces a steady smile, trying not to let her voice tremble.

JO
Daddy’s… very tired right now.
His body is working really, really hard to get better.

Luna tilts her head, frowning.

LUNA
Is Daddy mad at us?

The question lands like a punch.

Jo pulls both kids into her arms at once.

JO
No. Never. 
Daddy loves you so much.
He just… he’s just very tired.

Scout leans against her, small and worried.

SCOUT
Will he be tired tomorrow?

Jo hesitates for just a second — a flicker of truth she tries to hide.

JO
We’ll try, okay?
I’ll give him your drawings.
They’ll make him really happy.

From behind them, Eric watches — a soft ache in his eyes.
He steps closer, crouching beside Jo so the kids can hear him too.

ERIC
Hey… your dad’s doing everything he can to get better.
And when he sees these?
He’s gonna feel stronger.
I promise.

Luna brightens, reassured by her grandpa’s calm tone.

LUNA
Okay!

Maureen exchanges a quiet, grateful look with Eric.

MAUREEN
Dinner’s almost ready.
Why don’t you two choose your favorite drawings, and we’ll put them in an envelope for Mommy to take to Daddy?

The kids brighten and scramble to choose their favorites.

Jo stands slowly, eyes glistening.

Maureen steps closer, lowers her voice.

MAUREEN
Jo…
This is hard for all of you.
If he’s not ready to call yet, that’s okay.
He’ll come around. 

Jo nods, swallowing hard.

JO
I know…
It’s just hard to see him hurt like this.

Eric joins them — steady, quiet strength.
Maureen places a steady hand on her arm.

ERIC
He’s tougher than he looks.
And he’s got you.
That makes all the difference.

Jo manages a small, fragile smile.

JO
Thank you.

Behind them, Luna holds up a drawing triumphantly.

LUNA
Mommy! This one! Daddy will like this one the best!

Jo wipes her eyes discreetly and turns to her daughter with a warm smile.

JO
He absolutely will.
Now — dinner please!

The kids race to the table, joyful, innocent.

Life is still happening here — vibrant and loud — while Link’s world sits on pause in a quiet hospital room.

FADE OUT.

22.1.10 – Link is Moved to a Bigger Room

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – HOSPITAL HALLWAY – MORNING

A NURSE wheels Link slowly down the hallway on a transport bed, his body stiff with soreness.

He looks exhausted, but more alert than in previous days.

Owen walks alongside the bed, clipboard under his arm.

OWEN
Morning, Link.
How’s the pain today?

LINK
(dry)
Still here.

Owen huffs a small laugh.

OWEN
(smiles) 
Good. Means you’re alive.

They reach a door. Owen pushes it open with his shoulder.

OWEN
Alright — upgraded accommodations, Mister VIP.

The nurse wheels Link inside.

INT. GREY SLOAN – PRIVATE ROOM – CONTINUOUS

The room is noticeably larger — big windows, more space, a small seating area with a couch and two armchairs surrounding a coffee table, with a small coffee station nearby. 

And on every available surface:
FLOWERS. CARDS. GIFT BASKETS.
Enough for a celebrity.

Link blinks, stunned.

LINK
Oh… wow.

OWEN
(deadpan)
Yeah.
Turns out people actually like you.

Link’s eyebrows lift.

LINK
All this is for me?

OWEN
Well, you are practically a celebrity around here.

Link lets out a tiny breath of a laugh — which immediately becomes a wince.

LINK
Don’t make me laugh. It hurts everywhere.

OWEN
Noted.

The nurse and Owen help Link settle into the new bed.

He grips the rails, breathing through the pain.

Owen watches him — the humor softens.

OWEN
You’re doing well, Link.

LINK
(teasing, weary, wincing)
Well… I wouldn’t put it that way. 

Owen gives him a rare, full smile.

OWEN
You’re stubborn as hell.
That’ll help your recovery. 

He nods toward the gifts overflowing around the room.

OWEN
People have been asking about you nonstop.

Link sighs, sinking into the pillow.

LINK
Feels like I’m not getting anywhere. Anytime soon. 

OWEN
Recovery isn’t a straight line.
But at least, you have a whole family — and a whole hospital — around you.
 
Link nods slowly, letting the words settle.

LINK
Thanks, Hunt.

Owen heads for the door.

OWEN
I’ll check on you again later.
Try not to drown in all the admiration.

Link glances around at the avalanche of flowers and gifts.

LINK
No promises.

Owen gives him a last, steady look — the kind that says we’ve got you — then steps out.

Link leans back, eyes closing, surrounded by pain… and by the quiet reminder that he’s loved.

FADE OUT.

22.1.11 – Link Pushes Through PT and Jo Brings the Drawings

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING

Link sits upright in bed, slightly higher than yesterday, the light pouring through the large windows of his new room.
He already looks drained — the anticipation of pain is its own weight.

The Physical therapist (PT) enters with a soft knock, an intern trailing quietly behind, carrying extra support gear.

PT
Morning, Dr. Lincoln.
Ready for round two?

Link forces a thin smile.

LINK
Ready as I’ll ever be.

The PT adjusts the bed, raising him slowly.
He grimaces through each degree of elevation.

PT
Today we’ll try sitting, standing, and a few very small steps.
We’ll go slow.

Link nods, though frustration is already creeping into his expression.

The PT nods toward the intern.

PT
Don’t worry — I brought extra muscles with me today.

The intern gives a shy half-smile.

Link huffs a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh.

LINK
Lucky me.

INTERN
Hi, Dr. Lincoln.
Here to help however you need.

Link exhales a small, breathy laugh.

LINK
Yeah, I’m gonna need all the muscles you can spare.

The PT and intern help him pivot.
Link lowers his feet to the floor, as his breath trembles.

LINK
Okay… let’s just—
get it over with.

PT
You’re in control.
We stop the second you say so.

Link huffs — a bitter echo of humor.

LINK
If I stop every time it hurts, we’ll be here all day.

The PT steadies him as Link pushes upward.

His legs shake instantly.
His ribs scream.
He sucks in a shallow, painful breath.

He reaches fully upright — one second, two—
Then his knees wobble; the room tilts.

LINK
Wait— I’m—

The PT and intern catch him immediately, guiding him back.

PT
Easy, easy—
That was a good start. 

Link shakes his head, jaw tight with humiliation.

PT
Let’s try again.
Nice and slow.

They help him rise again.
His legs tremble but hold.
Three seconds… four…

Link fights for every breath.

PT
There you go.
That’s progress.

LINK
(through gritted teeth)
Okay—okay—put me down—

They lower him gently. Link exhales shakily, sweat beading on his forehead.

Link wipes his face, frustrated.

LINK
One more.

PT
Only if you feel okay. 

LINK
I said one more.

The PT nods, cautious, but confident with the intern beside him.

Link pushes up again.
Every muscle screams. He sways — but he holds himself up.

He makes it three seconds—
four—
five—

Then that familiar snap of weakness in his knees.

He collapses back, breath shuddering, chest heaving.

LINK
Dammit!

The PT steadies him, calm and steady.

PT
You stood longer each time.
That’s real improvement. 

Link looks away, eyes burning.

LINK
At this rate, my twins will walk before me. 

PT
You had major thoracic surgery.
Your body is healing.
This is progress.

Link looks away, swallowing emotion.

LINK
Doesn’t feel like progress.

PT
You’re allowed to be frustrated.

The PT gives his good shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze.

PT
I’ll check on you again later.
Get some rest.

The PT and intern help Link lie back down and exit the room.

Link remains slumped against the pillows, chest heaving softly, his gaze fixed downward — hollow and tired.


INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING (CONTINUOUS)

A few minutes later.
A soft knock breaks the silence.
Jo steps inside, her bag on her shoulder — then she stops short.

JO
Oh wow…
Look at this place.

She moves slowly, eyes traveling over the flowers, cards, gift baskets overflowing everywhere.

JO
(soft laugh)
Okay, Mister VIP.
I leave you alone for one night and you already have secret admirers?
Should I be jealous?

Link actually smiles and it breaks the tension.

LINK
I am gonna start having allergies with all these flowers.
This is… way too much.

JO
People do care about you.

He doesn’t answer — emotion flickering, unsteady.

Jo steps closer, leans in, and kisses him gently before settling on the bed’s edge.

JO
(soft)
How did you sleep?

LINK
Alright. They gave me something for the pain. Knocked me down a bit.

JO
Good.

LINK
You? Did you rest?

JO
Yes.

LINK 
How are the kids?

Jo pulls out an envelope from her bag.

JO
They’re okay.
They made these for you last night.

She opens the envelope and hands him the drawings, each scribbled with “I LOVE YOU DADDY.”

Link’s breath catches.

JO
Scout asked if you’d be less tired today.
And Luna hoped your “ouchies” didn’t hurt as much.

Link’s eyes soften, then fall, emotional.

LINK
I miss them…

Jo stays steady, loving.

JO
(soft)
Let them see you.
Just a quick hello.
They are stronger than you think.

Link tenses — not from pain, but fear.

Jo places a steady, warm hand on his arm.

LINK
I miss them so much. 

JO
I know, baby.

He looks at the drawings again, eyes glistening.

Jo stays close, quiet, letting him feel everything he’s been holding in.
She pulls out a set of framed photos.

JO
I also brought these.
To make your room feel a little more like home.

He looks at them — then stops at their wedding picture.
He softens.

LINK 
You were so beautiful.
You are so beautiful. 

JO
You were not that bad yourself.

They share a fragile, genuine smile. The first soft moment of the morning.

LINK
I love you.

He squeezes her hand gently — needing her, needing his family, and finally letting himself admit it.

FADE OUT.

22.1.12 – First FaceTime with the Kids

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON

The late sun spills warm gold across Link’s new room.

He looks exhausted from PT, but calmer — Jo’s presence anchoring him.

Jo sits beside him on the bed. The drawings the kids made are taped to the wall behind him, and their wedding photos — along with other pictures — are placed around the room.

A long, fragile moment passes.

LINK
(quiet)
Ok, let’s call them…

Jo turns to him — surprised, but gentle.

JO
Okay.

Link swallows, nodding slowly.

LINK
Just for a minute.

Jo smiles softly and opens her phone.

JO
I’ll keep the camera high. Just your face.

Link exhales shakily — grateful.

LINK
Thanks.

Jo taps the screen.

The FaceTime rings once—
twice—

Then Luna’s face explodes onto the screen, all smiles and missing teeth.

LUNA
DADDY!!!

Link’s breath catches. His eyes shine instantly.

LINK
(soft, emotional)
Hey, bug…

Scout appears, practically climbing over Luna, hair wild.

SCOUT
Daddy!! Daddy hi!! Daddy look!!

He shoves a drawing into the camera — a blue weird-looking dinosaur that barely fits on the page.

Link laughs — weak, breathy, but real.

LINK
Buddy… that’s amazing.

Luna squints at him through the camera.

LUNA
Daddy, you look tired.

LINK
I’m okay, sweetheart.
Just resting so I can come home soon.

Scout bounces.

SCOUT
Are you coming home tomorrow??

LINK
(soft, smiling)
Not tomorrow…
But soon.

Luna leans close to the phone until her whole face fills the screen.

LUNA
We made you drawings!
Did Mommy bring them??

Link glances at the wall behind him — the drawings proudly displayed.

LINK
I got them.
They’re right behind me.
They’re my favorite part of the room.

Luna beams.

Behind them, Maureen and Eric step briefly into frame — warm, supportive, not intrusive.

MAUREEN
Hi, sweetie.
We’re so glad to hear your voice.

ERIC
(smiling)
Your little monkeys have been pretty restless — in a good way. Keeping us on our toes.

Link smiles — shaky, emotional, grateful.

LINK
Thank you both…
for taking care of them.

MAUREEN
Just focus on you now.
We’ll stay as long as you need us. 

They step back out of the way, leaving the moment to Link and the kids.

Luna leans close again.

LUNA
Do your ouchies hurt?

Link breathes carefully.

LINK
A little.
But talking to you helps a lot.

Jo’s eyes warm.

Scout suddenly gasps dramatically.

SCOUT
Granny and Jo said you fell down the stairs!
Daddy, don’t run down the stairs again!

Jo chokes on a laugh. Link’s eyebrows lift.

LINK
I’ll… try not to, buddy. And neither do you. 

The kids giggle.

LUNA
Daddy, when you come home, can we make pancakes?

LINK
Yeah, baby.
We’ll make all the pancakes you want.

Scout claps his hands.

SCOUT
Daddy come home!

Link’s voice shakes — emotion swelling fast.
Jo senses it and steps in gently.

JO
Okay, loves… Daddy’s going to rest now.
Say goodnight.

Luna nods seriously.

LUNA
Okay…
Goodnight Daddy.
I love you so, so, so, soooo much.

SCOUT
Me too!
Goodnight Daddy!!

Link closes his eyes briefly — the love in their voices overwhelms him.

LINK
I love you too. So, so much.

Luna blows a kiss. Scout copies.

JO 
I am going home in a bit. I’ll see you soon. Be nice with Granny and Grandpa.

Jo ends the call gently.
A warm silence settles.

Link lets out a shaking exhale, something inside him finally unclenching.

LINK
(quiet, raw)
I hate being stuck here.

Jo leans her forehead lightly against his temple — a soft grounding touch.

JO
I know.

Link closes his eyes, soaking it in… then his breath catches, just slightly.

He looks away a moment too quickly.

Jo notices.

JO
(soft, checking him)
Are you okay with me going home?

Link swallows, then nods — but it’s stiff, guarded, his pride talking.

LINK
Yeah.
Go.
I’m okay.

Jo studies him — sensing something she can’t quite name.
She leans in and kisses him carefully, tender.

Link kisses her back, but there’s a flicker — the way his hand hesitates before settling on hers.

When she pulls back, he forces a small smile.

JO
I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. 

Link nods again, but this time he can’t quite meet her eyes.

LINK
You don’t have to rush.
It’s not like I’m going anywhere…

A soft attempt at humor — but it lands heavy, hollow.
Jo hesitates for half a second… then leaves quietly.

The door closes.

Link watches her go, eyes soft and conflicted.

The moment she’s gone, something in him collapses inward.
Not because she left —
but because being alone forces him to confront what he’s trying to outrun:
Gratitude tangled with shame.
Love tangled with helplessness.

Needing her… while hating needing anything at all.

He hates being stuck like this.
Hates that he can’t go home.
That anger has nowhere to go
except inward.
For the first time since waking up, his body feels lighter— but his chest feels heavier.

FADE OUT.

22.1.13 – Link Asks About Monica Beltran’s Memorial

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE NIGHT

The room is dim, lit only by monitor lights and the faint glow from the hallway.

The hospital hums quietly around him.

Link lies awake, propped up slightly, staring at the ceiling.

His phone rests on his chest, screen still on.

A photo Jo sent earlier —

Both kids around Jo reading a book on the couch. Photo mostly taken by his parents. 

A text beneath it:
We love you and we miss you.

Link stares at the screen a bit hurt.

A nurse enters quietly to check on him. 

NURSE
Hey, Dr. Lincoln.
How are you feeling tonight?

LINK
(ironic)
Hanging in there.

She wraps the cuff around his arm, checks the monitor.

A beat.

NURSE
Vitals look good.
Pain okay?

He hesitates.

LINK
Manageable.

She nods, jotting it down.

NURSE
Want something to help you sleep?

LINK
Yeah. Please. 
But a smaller dose than yesterday.
 
NURSE
Alright.

She prepares it.

A beat of silence.

Link swallows, then—

LINK
Hey…
Can I ask you something?

She looks up, attentive.

NURSE
Of course.

LINK
Dr. Beltran’s memorial service…
Do you know what time it is tomorrow? 
I heard it will be livestreamed. 

The nurse’s expression softens immediately.

NURSE
Three p.m.
I can send you the link.

LINK
Yes. Please.
On my hospital email.
 
She nods, makes a note.

Link hesitates again — this one heavier.

LINK
And…
my patient.
The man I was operating on when—

He can’t finish the sentence.

The nurse waits. Doesn’t rush him.

NURSE
I know who you mean.

LINK
Do you know when his funeral is?

The words come out rough, unfinished.

NURSE
I don’t have that information…

Link nods, eyes burning.

LINK
I’d like to send flowers.

A beat.

LINK
Could you help me with that?

The nurse meets his eyes — no pity, just understanding.

NURSE
Of course, Dr. Lincoln.
I’ll contact the family and let you know.

LINK
Thank you.

She finishes adjusting the IV, steps back.

NURSE
Try to get some rest.

She exits quietly.

The door closes.

Link stares at it for a long moment.

Then he turns his head away from the photos on the wall —
from Jo, from the kids — and stares up at the dark ceiling instead.

FADE OUT.

22.1.14 – Link Pushes Too Hard in PT

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING

The room is quiet, filled with sunlight.

Link sits on the edge of the bed, his hospital gown open at the back but covered with a light zip-up sweatshirt. He looks a bit less washed-out, but his movements are stiff, careful.

Jo stands by the window, scrolling through something on her phone — half watching, half giving him space.

A PT and the same intern from the day before enter with a light knock.

PT
Morning, Dr. Lincoln.
Ready to stretch those legs again?

Link lets out a slow breath, trying to sound casual.

LINK
Yeah.
I’m ready to do more than six sad steps.

The intern smiles politely.

INTERN
We’ll see what your body agrees with.

PT
Same rules as yesterday: Listen to your pain. No pushing past it.
No heroics.

Link’s jaw tightens.

LINK
Got it.
No fun allowed.

He glances at Jo.

LINK
You don’t have to stay for this.

JO
(soft)
No. I’ll stay.
 
The PT and intern help him rise slowly.

Link winces as his ribs and chest pull, but he forces himself upright.

Jo moves closer on instinct, hands hovering, eyes tracking every wobble.

He takes a cautious step.
Then another. Breathing shallow, irritated.

PT
Good.
Nice and slow.
Remember to breathe.

Link’s breaths are short, frustrated.

LINK
That’s all I do — breathe and stare at the same four walls.
Would be nice to actually get somewhere.

PT
This is getting somewhere.

Link doesn’t answer.

He makes it to the end of the bed. The PT gently steers him to turn.

PT
Let’s go to the door and back.
That’s enough for this morning.

Link looks at the open doorway as if it’s miles away.

LINK
(winces)
Come on.
I can go farther than that.

PT
One step at a time. 

LINK
Literally.
At this rate, my wife will have delivered the twins. 

Jo feels the tension. 

He pushes forward anyway, as he makes his way toward the door, every breath shallow and tight.

JO
Hey. You’re doing great.

LINK
Yeah, well, that won’t get me home anytime soon.

JO
Give yourself some grace. 

He swallows, throat thick. His legs wobble slightly.

The PT steps in.

PT
Okay, that’s enough for now. Let’s turn around.

Link reaches the doorway and stops, looking longingly at the hallway like it’s freedom.

LINK
We could go a little farther.

PT
Not today.

A beat.

Link’s frustration flashes.

LINK
Feels like I spend my day walking in circles and everyone keeps calling it progress.

The PT stays steady.

PT
Doctors make the worst patients.
You’re easily in the top three.

LINK
I’ll take the trophy when I’m back on my feet.

PT
Your ribs are still knitting.
Your lung is still healing.
This is progress.

LINK
I wish you’d let me go further. 

From the side, Jo tries again — gentle, hopeful.

JO
Link, this is huge.
A few days ago you were unconscious. Now you’re walking—

He cuts in, not sharply, but heavy.

LINK
Jo… you really don’t have to stay for this.

She pauses — startled. It’s small, but it hits.

JO
What?

He avoids her eyes, as the PT helps guide him back toward the bed.

LINK
You don’t have to watch me embarrass myself.

He tries to make it sound like a joke — but it doesn’t quite land.

JO
You are not. 
I want to be here.

He nods, but doesn’t look at her.

LINK
You should be home.
Resting.
With the kids.
Not… spending your day babysitting me.

Jo’s face softens and tightens at the same time.

JO
I’m not…

He knows.
But he can’t hold her gaze.

The PT silently reads the room and focuses on the mechanics.

They guide Link back to the bed.
He sits down, breath shaking, sweat on his forehead.

PT
You did well.
We’ll build on that this afternoon.

Link gives a short, frustrated nod, eyes on the floor.

LINK
Yeah.
Sure.

The PT looks to Jo, then back to Link.

PT
I’ll come back later.
Get some rest.

The PT and intern step out.
Silence. Just Link’s uneven breaths.

Jo stands a little apart now, arms loosely folded — not angry, just worried.

JO
You know I’m not here out of obligation, right?

Link drags a hand over his face, exhausted and ashamed of how the morning went.

LINK
I know.
It’s just…

He searches for a word big enough for everything he’s feeling — finds none.

LINK
I don’t love having you see me like this.
Barely able to walk ten feet with an entourage.

Jo steps closer, her voice soft, steady.

JO
You survived an explosion and a massive surgery.
You’re allowed to be where you are. 

Link exhales, but it doesn’t soothe him.
He leans back against the pillows, looking suddenly older, worn.

LINK
Yeah.
Well.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Jo’s eyes flicker with sadness — quickly masked.

JO
Well… I don’t like it either.

He glances at her, surprised by the admission. Something fragile cracks open.

A beat.

LINK
(quiet, tired)
I’m sorry.
I’m… not great company right now.

Jo’s expression softens immediately.

JO
You’ve had better days. 

A beat. His voice is smaller when it comes.

LINK
(quiet, cracking just slightly)
I just… I want to be home when the babies come.
I can’t be stuck here.

Jo’s eyes soften — but the sadness behind them is unmistakable.

She steps closer, instinctively wanting to soothe him.

JO
We’ll get there. One day at a time.

But Link’s breathing is tight, uneven — the fear isn’t gone.

It’s turning into frustration, shame, restlessness.

A beat. 

LINK
(softens)
You should take the afternoon.
Go home early.
Be with the kids.

It’s not cold.
But it is distance.
Jo hears it. Feels it.

JO
…We’ll see how the day goes.

He nods without looking up.

A long, quiet beat stretches between them —
not anger, not conflict…
but something new, subtle, unmistakable: the first crack.

FADE OUT.

22.1.15 – The Crack Starts to Show

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – AFTERNOON

The room is quiet.

Afternoon light slants across the floor.

Link lies back in bed, eyes closed.
Not asleep. Just still.
The door opens softly.

Teddy Altman steps out of the room, tablet in hand — calm, professional.

She nearly collides with Jo, who’s returning with a cup of coffee. They stop just outside the door.

JO
(low, careful)
How is he?

TEDDY
Physically? 
Wound healing just as it should.

A beat.

TEDDY
Emotionally… you tell me.

JO
Hard to say.
He’s… closed off.

TEDDY
That tracks.

JO
How long until he’s back on his feet?

Teddy considers her answer carefully.

TEDDY
Longer than he wants.
Shorter than it feels.

Jo exhales, tight.

JO
He won’t really let me in anymore.
I don’t know how long he’s going to last in here.

Teddy’s gaze flicks  briefly toward Link.

TEDDY
He’s a surgeon.
He knows how long recovery takes.

JO
Yeah.
But he’s also stubborn.

A faint, knowing smile passes between them.

TEDDY
I know you want to help him.
But, in there, you’re not his doctor.
You’re his wife.

That line matters. It lands.

JO
I know.

TEDDY
And that makes this harder for him than he’ll admit.

They share a quiet look.

Neither of them realizes he can hear every word.
Teddy gives Jo’s arm a gentle squeeze.

TEDDY
I’ll check back later.

She steps away down the hall.
Jo turns back toward the room — pauses just outside.

Inside the room, Link’s eyes are open now.
His jaw tightens.
He shifts slightly, then reaches — carefully — for the water pitcher on the tray with his free hand.

His movements are stiff — precise to the point of strain.
He lifts the pitcher, tries to pour.
The angle is off.
Water sloshes — then spills everywhere. Glass tips on its side.

Across the tray.
The sheets.
The tablet.

LINK
(frustrated, sharp)
Damn it!

He slams his hand lightly against the mattress — pain flares, but he barely reacts.

Jo hears it immediately.

She pushes the door open.

JO
Link—

She stops when she sees the mess.
Nothing serious.
Just water everywhere.
The glass tipped on its side.

Link doesn’t look at her.

LINK
I had it.

Not yelling.
But tight. Controlled. Pressurized.

JO
Let me—

She takes the water pitcher and pours him water. 

LINK
I can’t even pour a glass of water.

JO
It’s okay.
I’ll clean it up. 

She grabs towels behind and dries the tablet and the rest. 

JO
I’m going to grab you a dry sheet.

LINK
No no, it’s just water.

JO
The whole bed’s wet. I’ll be right back.
 
She hesitates — senses the moment — then steps out briefly.

Link stares at the glass.
At his hand.
At the wet sheets.
His frustration doesn’t explode.
It compresses — heavier, tighter — with nowhere to go.

FADE OUT.

22.1.16 – Link Watches the Memorial

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – AFTERNOON

The room is still.
Too still.

Sunlight filters weakly through the blinds, striping the wall in pale gold.

Link sits propped up in bed, laptop open on the tray in front of him.

His hospital bracelet rests stark against his wrist.
An IV line disappears beneath the blanket.
Quiet reminders he can’t escape.

Jo was called into an emergency C-section an hour ago.
There was no one else available.

The livestream loads.

MONICA BELTRAN’S MEMORIAL SERVICE.

A photo of Monica fills the screen — confident, smiling, alive.

Link’s jaw tightens.
He shifts slightly, as if to rise —
then stops.

His hand grips the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening,
before he lets go.

The service is beautiful.

Her parents speak.
Her brother.
Friends.
Colleagues. 
Former patients.

Stories of who she was. 
Who she mattered to. 
What she gave.

Link doesn’t blink.

On screen, faces grieve together.
Hands reach for one another.
People are held.

In the room, he is alone.

The reflection of the service flickers faintly across the darkened screen — and with it, his own: pale, tired, immobile. Stuck.

A voice on the livestream breaks — just slightly.

That’s when Link closes the laptop.
He can’t go through with it.

The room goes quiet again.

He leans back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow.

Alone with the weight of the people who died while he lived—
and the fear of almost losing the people he loved the most.

His gaze drops to his wrist.
The hospital bracelet.
The IV line.

The quiet, terrifying realization settles in:
This could have been his funeral.

His eyes drift to the photos spread across the room —  Jo.  The kids.
He looks at them for a beat.

A single tear slips from the corner of his eye, tracing silently down his cheek.
He doesn’t wipe it away.

He doesn’t let it become more.
That’s all he allows.

Link closes his eyes and folds back inward.

FADE OUT.

22.1.17 – Link Pulls Inward and Jo Feels It

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON 

The light in the room has shifted.
Later now. More muted.

Link sits upright in bed, staring at nothing, lost in his thoughts. 

The laptop remains closed on the tray.
The memorial is over.  
But it hasn’t left him. 

A soft knock.

Jo enters, still in scrubs.
Her hair is pulled back hastily, a few strands loose.
She looks tired, but relieved to see him.

JO
Hey.

Link turns his head.

Forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

LINK
Hey.

JO
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

She crosses the room, sits beside him.

LINK
For what?

JO
I was supposed to be off…

He shrugs gently, automatic.

LINK
Emergency C-section kinda outranks bed-ridden husband.

She smiles at the attempt at humor — then fills the silence, sensing something off.

JO
Mom and baby are both fine. 

LINK
Good. 

The word is right.
But it lands flat. Automatic.

Jo notices.
She studies his face, then reaches for his hand.
He lets her take it.

JO
I hate that I missed the memorial.
How was it?

LINK 
It was…
what you’d expect.

That’s all he offers.

Jo waits.
Doesn’t push.
Leaves him space.

He doesn’t add anything.
The silence stretches.

She tries again, softer. As she sees something is deeply affecting him.

JO
It might help to talk to someone about what happened.
it doesn’t have to be me, but—

Link shakes his head once. 
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just closed.

LINK
What is there to say?

It’s honest.
And it lands wrong.
Jo nods, swallowing it.

JO
(soft)
Okay.
I’m just saying… talking is part of healing too.

She squeezes his hand — grounding herself as much as him.

He doesn’t squeeze back.

A beat. 

JO
I should head home now, if I want to see the kids before bed.
Luna’s not feeling great.

That gets his attention.

LINK
What’s wrong?

JO
That’s all I know.
Your mom texted earlier — hasn’t answered since.

LINK
Okay.
Let me know how she is.

Another pause. Thicker this time.

Link finally looks at her — really looks — and gently places a hand over her belly.

LINK
How are you feeling?
You haven’t had a second to rest.

Jo exhales softly.

JO
I am fine. 
Your parents have been incredible.

LINK
Good.
I hate that I can’t do more right now.

JO
It’s okay. 
You focus on you.

LINK
Yep.

Jo waits — just a second longer.

She kisses him on the lips.
He doesn’t quite meet her there.

JO
I’ll see you tomorrow morning?

Link doesn’t look at her when he answers.

LINK
(defeated)
You know where to find me.

The words aren’t unkind.
But they land wrong.

Jo feels it. Her face tightens - a flicker of something tightening in her chest.

JO
I hate leaving when I can clearly see that something’s wrong.

LINK
I’m fine. 

JO
I know something’s not right.

LINK
I am just tired. 

He nods once, like that settles it.
It doesn’t. She knows something’s off. 

Jo watches him — waiting for him to look back at her.
He doesn’t.

JO
Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
PT’s coming back in a few, right?

LINK
Nah.
You should go.
They need you more than I do right now.

Practical.
Final.

JO
Okay.
Just don’t push too much…

As he releases her hand, she feels it — him slipping further inward.

LINK
Tell the kids I love them.
and that we’ll call tomorrow.

JO
Okay..
Text me if you need me to bring anything tomorrow.

LINK
Yeah. 

JO
I’ll bring the books your mom picked up for you.

LINK
Thanks.

She stands. Hesitates — she doesn’t want to leave him like this.

JO
I love you.

A beat.

LINK
(drained)
…Love you too.

Quieter than usual.

Jo waits — just a second — for him to look up.
He doesn’t.
She turns and leaves.

Link’s jaw tightens.
For just a second, he almost turns toward the door —
then stops. 

If he looks at her, he might ask her to stay.
If he admits need, he becomes the version of himself he can’t tolerate yet.

The door closes softly behind Jo.
In the doorway, the PT passes her, nodding.

PT
Hey, Dr. Lincoln.
Ready to work on that grip strength?

Link doesn’t answer right away.
Link stays exactly where he is —
eyes fixed ahead, shoulders drawn inward, retreating further into himself.

FADE OUT.

22.1.18 – Jo Leans on Maureen

INT. LINK & JO’S APARTMENT – EVENING

The apartment is dim and cozy. Soft kids’ music plays in the background.

Luna lies curled up under a blanket on the couch, cheeks flushed, eyes tired.

Scout sits on the floor with Eric, building a precarious block tower.

The front door opens.

Jo steps inside — tired, stretched thin, held together because she has to be.

JO
Hey, everyone.

ERIC
Hey, Jo.

MAUREEN (O.S.)
Hi honey!

SCOUT
Hiiii!

Luna lifts her head.

LUNA
Mommy…

Jo’s whole face softens. She crosses to the couch and sits beside her.

JO
Hey, my love.
Granny told me you were not feeling well?

Luna shrugs, sniffling. Just seeing her mom seems to make her brighter.

Jo presses the back of her hand to Luna’s forehead.

Maureen appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

MAUREEN
Low-grade fever.
Runny nose.
She’s been resting most of the afternoon.

Luna sniffles, but smiles weakly.

LUNA
We watched the dragon movie.
Twice.

JO
(smiling softly)
That sounds like a pretty good day to me.

Scout turns proudly.

SCOUT
Jo, look at our tower! 

The tower immediately collapses. 

ERIC
(over dramatic)
NO!! Not again!

JO
Oh no! Now you’ll have to build it up again!

Scout bursts into giggles as Eric tickles him. The mood is warm, chaotic, happy.

Jo tries to smile and sink into the coziness of an evening at home with the kids —
then just for a second, her smile falters.

She brushes Luna’s hair back.

LUNA
Can we call Daddy tonight?

Her eyes brighten with hope.

Jo softens — but something pinches inside her.

JO
Not tonight, sweetheart.
He’s resting.
But he told me to say goodnight…
and that he loves both of you very much. 

Scout frowns.

SCOUT
Why is he tired all the time?

Jo, caught off guard by his innocence and spontaneity, lets a small laugh slip. Then she exhales carefully — choosing the truth that comforts.

JO
He’s feeling better every day.
And he misses you so much.
He’ll be home as soon as he can.

She knows it’s the reassurance they need.

Scout perks up suddenly with a new burst of energy.

SCOUT
Can we go to the park with the BIG slides tomorrow?

MAUREEN
We’ll see how everyone’s doing in the morning.
But yes — we’ll figure something out.

Scout cheers.

Jo watches them, absorbing the moment — grateful the kids still have joy, even when she feels torn in two.

SCOUT
Can you come with us, Jo?

Jo freezes — only a breath — but it hits hard. It’s innocent, but it lands in the softest bruise.
Because in his world, she is a parent figure, and he needs her too.

JO
(small, apologetic smile)
I wish I could, buddy…
but I have to go see your Daddy at the hospital tomorrow morning.

Scout’s little shoulders fall.
Luna watches Jo too — quiet, sleepy, absorbing everything.

SCOUT
I wanna go see Daddy too…

Jo smooths his hair, gently.

JO
I know. 
And he can’t wait to see you too —
we just need him a little stronger first.

Scout nods, disappointed.

JO
(trying to lift the mood)
But you’re going to have so much fun tomorrow.
And I’ll be home as soon as I can, okay?
Then we’ll call Daddy together.

SCOUT
Can we call Mommy, too?
Granny tried but she didn’t answer.

Jo’s heart tightens.

JO
Yeah… we’ll try again tomorrow, okay? 
Mommy is sick and resting. She probably just didn’t hear the phone.

Scout nods again, accepting it in the simple way kids do.

Jo gathers herself and slightly overplays her enthusiasm.

JO
You guys are so lucky…
getting to spend your whole vacation with Grandpa and Granny.

Luna smiles sleepily. Scout beams.

Jo smiles too — but it wavers, just a little.

She loves that the kids are happy…
and hates that she can’t be fully present for them right now.

She kisses Luna’s warm forehead.

ERIC
Big slides tomorrow. 
But you have to go to bed without fuss, ok?

SCOUT & LUNA
Yes!

JO
I’m going to help Granny in the kitchen.
Then it’s bedtime.

Luna nods, snuggling deeper into the blanket.

Jo rises and follows Maureen into the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS

The sink is full of dishes. A pot simmers on the stove.

Jo leans against the counter for a second, letting her shoulders drop.

JO
We’ll see how Luna’s doing in the morning.
I’ll go get medicine before heading to the hospital.

MAUREEN
Okay.

A beat. 

MAUREEN
Have you heard from Amelia?

Jo sighs — tired, aching.

JO
She texted me earlier.
She’s… not doing well.
And she feels guilty for not taking care of Scout.

Maureen’s face softens.

MAUREEN 
She shouldn’t.
I’d rather have Luna and Scout together —
especially now.

Jo exhales.

JO
Yeah… That’s what I told her.
But I couldn’t do any of this without you and Eric.

MAUREEN
That’s what grandparents are here for, honey.

Jo lets out a tiny breath — half laugh, half exhaustion.

Maureen looks at her gently.

MAUREEN
You look exhausted.

JO
I’m fine. Just…
It’s been a long day.

Maureen doesn’t push. She keeps her voice soft, grounded.

MAUREEN
How was he? Really?

Jo hesitates — then the truth cracks through.

JO
Physically… better.
He walked more with PT.
He’s making progress.

She swallows.

JO
But emotionally…
He’s frustrated.
Hates being seen like this.

Maureen nods knowingly.

MAUREEN
He’s always been that way.
Always had to be the strong one.

Jo’s gaze drops to her hands.

JO
I want to be there for him. 
But the more I try to help,
the more he pushes me away.

Maureen steps closer, placing a warm hand on Jo’s arm.

MAUREEN
He’s angry at the situation, Jo.
Not at you.

Jo’s eyes glisten, but she blinks it back.

JO
I know.
It’s just—
He’s there. The kids are here.
And no matter where I am, I feel like I’m failing someone.

Maureen’s face softens into something fiercely kind.

MAUREEN
You’re not failing anyone.
You’ve held all of this together since the explosion.
Link knows that.
Even if he doesn’t say it right now.

Jo exhales, slow and shaky.

JO
I don’t feel like I’m holding anything together. 
I just…
I want him back.
I want our lives back. 

Maureen nods, squeezing her arm.

MAUREEN
He wants that too.
More than anything.
(beat)
He’s just… hurting, honey.
And when he hurts, it comes out sideways.

Jo gives a small, tired smile.

Jo stares at the counter for a beat — and in that silence, she feels the distance stretching in every direction. She wants to be with him right now. And the guilt of wanting that — while the kids need her too — tightens something behind her ribs. She presses a palm to her belly, grounding herself. For a heartbeat, she zones out — guilt, longing, exhaustion all blurring together. One second. Just one. And then she pulls herself back because she has to.

JO
I should go start bedtime.

MAUREEN
I’ll handle it tonight.
You eat something first.
Those babies need their mama to take care of herself too.

JO
No… I want to do bedtime.
I’m barely here during the day…

Maureen’s voice softens, but stays firm.

MAUREEN
Okay. 
But honey… you’re carrying babies and the world on your shoulders.
Let us carry some of it too.

JO
You’re doing plenty already. 

She glances back toward the living room, where Scout laughs and Luna sniffles into her blanket.

She wishes she could be in two places at once —
but tonight, painfully, she’s only one person. And her body reminds her she’s already carrying more than she can hold.

And beneath everything she’s juggling, there’s an ache she won’t say aloud: 
Link feels far from her, retreating inward, and every inch of that distance hurts.

Some quiet, frightened part of her wants to run back to the hospital just to close that gap… And wanting that only makes her feel more absent here than she already does.

FADE OUT.

22.1.19 – Link Spirals Quietly

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE NIGHT

The room is dark now.
Monitors glow softly.
The hospital hums at night.

Link lies propped up in bed.

His sling rests awkwardly against his chest.
Attached to it: a small rubber grip ball.

Link squeezes it.
Once.
Releases.
Again.
Slow at first. Controlled.

His jaw tightens.
He squeezes harder.
The ball deforms under his grip — then slips slightly when his hand weakens.

He exhales sharply, frustrated.

Tries again.
This time, faster.

The movement pulls at his ribs. His shoulder protests.

Pain flashes across his face — sharp, breath-stealing — but he doesn’t stop.

He squeezes again.
And again.

The door opens quietly.

Owen steps in, mid-shift, careful not to startle him.

OWEN
Cant’t sleep?

Link doesn’t look up.

LINK
Not really.

Owen notices the ball.

OWEN
How’s the pain?

LINK
Manageable.

Owen gives a knowing look.

OWEN
That your official answer or your real one?

Link’s mouth twitches.

LINK
Official.

A beat.

LINK
Real one is… I hate this.

He squeezes the ball again. Too hard.

OWEN
Yeah.
That tracks.

Owen leans lightly against the door frame.

OWEN
Try to get some rest.
It’s as important as PT.

LINK
I know. 

He turns to leave.

OWEN
We might remove the chest tube tomorrow.

LINK
Yay.

OWEN
Get some sleep.

LINK
Good night.

The door closes.
Silence.

Link stares at the ceiling.
Then his phone vibrates.

A text from Jo.

JO (TEXT)
Luna had a little fever but it’s down now.
She’s asleep. Scout too.
They asked about you.
We miss you. We love you.

He stares at the screen for a long moment.

He types.
Deletes.
Types again.

LINK (TEXT)
Love you too.

He hits send and squeezes the grip ball again.
Harder.
Faster.

He grimaces — breath hitching — but keeps going.

This isn’t exercise anymore.
It’s insistence. Control.

Proving something — to himself.

He tries once more.
Finally, his hand gives out.
Chest rising too fast.

He closes his eyes.
Not defeated.
Not breaking.

Just wound too tight — with nowhere for it to go.

FADE OUT.

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Episode 22×02 — “We Built This City” (Canon)

A week after the explosion, Link is still recovering in his hospital room. Seven days post-op, he is exhausted and pushing himself far too hard, obsessively working his grip strength. Owen checks on him and reassures him that his recovery is progressing, but Link is focused on one thing only: regaining enough strength to hold his daughters when they arrive. Jo urges him to slow down, but Link refuses to stop.

Link pushes past his limits and accidentally dislodges his IV. Jo storms into the hallway and confronts Owen, frustrated that he didn’t tell Link to take it easy. She’s scared and exhausted, and she hates that Link insists on pushing through the pain as if nothing happened. Teddy overhears and sends Owen to check on Link. Jo’s fear comes out harshly, but underneath it all she’s terrified of almost losing him.

Later, Jo returns to Link’s room to find him standing, struggling to plug in his phone charger on his own. He refuses her help, trying to prove he can function independently. In the process, he trips over the pleurovac tubing and falls onto the floor. Jo rushes to him, but he snaps at her, yelling at her to leave him alone. Hurt and overwhelmed, Jo walks out as Owen steps in.

Alone with Owen, Link finally lets part of his emotional armor crack. He admits he hates the way Jo looks at him now, like he’s a fragile patient. It reminds him of his childhood, of times when he didn’t want to feel weak or pitied. He tells Owen he feels like a shell of the man he was before. The deaths, the injuries, the near miss with his own life — all of it weighs on him. He’s furious at his body for betraying him and terrified by how close he came to missing his kids’ lives. He doesn’t know how to heal from that.

Later, Jo finds Owen outside Link’s room. Owen tells her he helped Link vent some of the anger”and that, beneath the rage, Link is still fighting. Jo softens. She knows Link internalizes things too long and expects himself to bounce back instantly. She says she’ll be patient with him, but insists he has to be patient with himself too. You can’t rebuild your life all at once; you can only do it step by step.

Jo enters the room again as Link is ready to open up.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.2

22.2.1 – Link Apologizes to Jo

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – EVENING

Jo stands a few feet from the bed.
Still.
Present.
Not pacing. Not bracing.

Link lies propped up, one arm immobilized. He looks at her — not defensive, just… full. Like he’s been holding something back for hours. Even days. 

JO
(soft, careful)
Hey.

Link swallows. His jaw tightens.

LINK
I…
(beat)
I’m so sorry.

The words land and hang there.

Jo doesn’t answer right away. She steps closer and sits on the edge of the bed. The space between them closes — slowly.

She isn’t angry.
Only tired. And scared.

JO
(soft)
Talk to me.

Link looks at her.

Something shifts in his face — small, but visible.
The control he’s been holding onto slips.
He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Jo sees it. She doesn’t rush him.
She shifts closer and gently pulls him in — careful, slow.

His forehead comes to rest against her collarbone.
She wraps her arms around him.
They stay there.

No dialogue. Just breath.
Link’s breathing is uneven — controlled, like he’s actively holding himself together.

JO
I’m right here. 

Time passes.
Finally, she eases back just enough to look at him.
Link exhales.

LINK
(quiet, ashamed)
I’m… angry.

A pause.

LINK (CONT’D)
All the time.

Jo doesn’t interrupt.
Jo’s hand moves in small, grounding circles along his arm.
She listens.

LINK (CONT’D)
I hate being stuck here.
I hate this body.

He stops. Swallows.

LINK (CONT’D)
And I keep thinking about…
the people who didn’t make it.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
And instead of being grateful…

His voice drops.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m snapping at you. 

He squeezes his eyes shut.

LINK (CONT’D)
God…
(quiet, wrecked)
I’m such an asshole.

She doesn’t argue.
She lets the guilt exist without trying to fix it.

Link stares at the wall.

LINK
Being here…
(beat)
Reminds me of when I was a kid.

He exhales.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hospitals.
Everyone looking at me with pity and fear.

A tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

JO
You don’t have to carry this by yourself.

He doesn’t answer.

So Jo takes a breath — a real one. Steadies herself.
Then she lets her guard down too. 

JO (CONT’D)
It happened to me too…
you know.

Link freezes. Looks at her.

JO (CONT’D)
Those seven hours…

Her voice wavers. She lets it.

JO (CONT’D)
After our phone call—
when they took you into surgery…
And no one could tell me anything…

She presses a hand lightly to her chest.

JO (CONT’D)
I didn’t know if you were coming back to me.

That lands.

Link’s breathing slows, deepens. He’s fully present now.

JO (CONT’D)
That broke me.

She looks at him — fully open now, no armor left.

JO (CONT’D)
I’m not here because I feel sorry for you.
I’m here because I love you.

Her voice softens — steadier now.

JO (CONT’D)
And because being near you is the only thing that makes my body stop bracing, stop waiting for the worst.

She swallows. 

JO (CONT’D)
I need you too, you know.

Link’s hand lifts — unsure — and finds her wrist. He holds on like it’s an anchor.

JO (CONT’D)
You don’t have to always be strong with me.

LINK
(quiet, wrecked)
I am sorry for putting you through all this.

Jo looks down. 

A beat.

LINK
I was so lost in my own misery…
I didn’t see how much it affected you.

JO
It did.
But we’re here now.

He looks at her.

LINK
I love you so much.

JO
I love you.

They kiss — soft, lingering, unhurried. Like they don’t want to let go.

When they pull back, something has settled.
Not fixed.
But aligned.

Silence settles — calmer now.

After a moment, Jo speaks again. Not rushing it.

JO
We’re going to have beautiful girls.

Link looks at her.

JO (CONT’D)
And you’re going to be a wonderful father.
You already are.

She says it like a fact. Not a promise.
Link lets it in.
Absorbs that.

LINK
My parents…
They’re not going anywhere, right?

Jo smiles softly.

JO
Not a chance.
We’re going to need all the help we can get.

A quiet laugh escapes him. Relief he didn’t know he was holding.

They hold each other again — not desperate. Necessary.

LINK
You should go…
The kids are going to want you at bedtime.

JO
I want to stay.

LINK
I want you to rest.

JO
I will.
Here.

LINK
What about the kids? 

JO
They’re okay.
Your parents have it covered.
(beat)
I’ll text them.

JO (CONT’D)
Maybe they could come tomorrow.

He hesitates — then nods.
His shoulders drop. His grip on her hand stays.

Jo stands, steps into the hallway, flags down a nurse.

INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

JO
Hey—
Is there any way we could get a cot or spare bed in his room?

NURSE
(smiles gently)
Yeah. I can make that happen.

JO
Thank you so much.
I owe you one.

NURSE
Anything for Dr. Lincoln.

FADE OUT.

22.2.2 – Jo Spends the Night

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATER

A second bed has been placed beside his.

Jo sets her bag down on the couch and goes to the bed. She slips back in, barefoot now. 

She lies on her side, facing him.
Her fingers slide gently into his hair — slow, grounding.

LINK
(whisper)
I love you.

JO
I love you.

They close their eyes.

Later, in the quiet of the night, Link shifts — pain flaring.

Jo’s hand finds his arm immediately, stroking softly until his breathing evens out again.

She stays awake until she’s sure he’s settled.
Only then does she let herself rest.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING

Soft morning light filters through the blinds.

Link is awake.
He lies still, listening to the hospital wake up around him — distant carts, low voices, the hum of machines.

Beside the bed, the extra cot sits empty.
On the bedside table, a folded note.

Link reaches for it carefully and opens it.

JO’S HANDWRITING:
Went to get breakfast.
I’ll be back in a few.

A small smile touches his face.

The door opens. A nurse enters, already moving toward the cot.

NURSE
Morning, Dr. Lincoln.
How’re you feeling?

LINK
Better.
Thanks.

She begins moving the cot, efficient but gentle.
Link watches as she wheels it toward the door.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey—
Thanks for… that.

The nurse glances at the cot, then back at him.

NURSE
Special treatment for our VIP patient.

He exhales a faint, almost amused breath as the cot disappears down the hall.

A moment later, another nurse steps in with a tray.
 
NURSE (CONT’D)
Breakfast delivery.

LINK
(smiles)
Thank you, but I think my wife went to get us breakfast from outside.

NURSE
Suit yourself. 
But nothing beats hospital food. 

They share a small smile.

NURSE
I’ll come back later to check on the wounds.

She exits with the tray.

Link rests his head back on the pillow.
Exhales.

His hand instinctively moves toward his wound.
Then he winces — just slightly.

A few minutes later.
The door opens again.

Jo slips in, coat still on, hair slightly windblown, carrying a paper bag. 
Link’s eyes go straight to the logo — familiar. His favorite place.

JO
(soft)
Hey.

LINK
You went all the way—

JO
I didn’t.
Just went down to meet the delivery guy.

She sets the bag down, pulls out the food.

JO (CONT’D)
I hope they didn’t forget anything, unlike last time.
 
She helps position the tray so he doesn’t have to strain, hands him a coffee.

A quiet beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
This is perfect.
Thank you for this.

She smiles — small, satisfied.
He leans in and kisses her gently.

Pain flickers across his face; his teeth clench.
He eases back onto the pillow.

JO (CONT’D)
Careful.

She takes back the coffee and puts it on the tray.

LINK
I know.

They sit together in the quiet, sharing the normalcy.

LINK (CONT’D)
What time are the kids coming?

Jo answers easily, before the worry can surface.

JO
Late morning.

She watches him closely.

JO (CONT’D)
They can’t wait to see you.

She rests a hand on his good shoulder, gentle, grounding.

He nods — but his shoulders tense just slightly.

JO (CONT’D)
Everything else you’re thinking about—
that’s just noise.

She meets his eyes.

JO (CONT’D)
They just want their dad.

A breath.

LINK
Okay.

She squeezes his hand once, grounding him, then lets go.

They eat together, unhurried.

FADE OUT.

22.2.3 – Link Lets Jo Stay for PT

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING

Jo sits on the couch with her laptop, working quietly.
Link rests in bed, more alert now. 

The PT enters — calm, professional.

PT
Morning.

LINK
Morning.

JO
Hi.

PT
Ready to get started?

LINK
Yeah.

Link glances at Jo, gives a small nod.
She looks up.
Holds his gaze for a beat.
Then deliberately stays where she is.

the PT moves closer, already assessing.

PT
How’s the arm?

LINK
Still hurts when I squeeze.

PT 
That’s normal.
It’ll take the longest to heal.
Keep doing the exercises at least three times a day.

LINK
I know.

Link shifts, preparing to sit up.
The movement is controlled, intentional.

He adjusts his legs, plants his feet.
Pauses — not from pain, but calculation.

The PT places a steady hand at his side.

PT
Ok.
Today you’re doing all the work.

Then Link pushes himself upright.
No drama.
No collapse.
Just effort.

Jo watches — doesn’t move, doesn’t interfere.

PT (CONT’D)
That’s it.
Take your time.

It’s not smooth.
It’s not easy.
But he does it. 

Link steadies himself, breath slightly deeper now.

PT
How does that feel?

LINK
Honestly?

PT
Always.

LINK
Hard.
But manageable.

The PT nods, approving.

He guides Link through a small shift in position, one hand firm at his back.

PT
Easy.
You don’t need to prove anything.

Link exhales, adjusts his grip.
Link glances toward Jo — just for a second.
She meets his eyes.

No reassurance.
No fear.
Just there.

He nods, reassured, and keeps going.

PT
Let’s walk to the couch and back.

LINK
Okay.

The PT stays close, one hand steady at Link’s elbow.
Link takes a few solid, careful steps.
He’s walking — but measured.
The PT never lets go.

PT
That’s good.
Slow it down.

They continue for a few moments.
Then—

PT (CONT’D)
Alright.
That’s enough.

Link stops, breathing controlled, sweat just beginning to bead.

LINK
Alright.

PT
Keep this up and you’ll be out of here sooner than you think.

Link gives a half-smile.

LINK
Don’t get my hopes up.

PT
Hope doesn’t do the work.

He glances briefly towards Jo.

PT (CONT’D)
Accepting help does.

A beat.

PT (CONT’D)
Bed or couch?

Link looks at the couch and Jo.

LINK
Couch.

The PT guides him over, still steadying him, and helps him sit beside Jo.

Once Link is settled, the PT steps back.

PT
I’ll check on you later.

He exits.
The room quiets.

Link leans back into the couch.
Closes his eyes for a second.
Just breathes.

LINK
(soft)
That was harder than it looks.

Jo reaches out, rests a hand on his knee, gentle.

JO
I know. But that’s good, baby.

A long beat.

Link opens his eyes, looks at her.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m glad you’re here.

JO
Me too.

She leans in. They kiss — then stay there for a moment, holding.

A beat.

Jo settles back, pulls her laptop onto her knees.

JO
I have a patient I want your thoughts on.

LINK
Sure.
Show me.

She turns the screen toward him.

JO
See the massive tumor on the pelvis?

They lean in together.
Normal, returning — slowly.

FADE OUT.

2.2.4 – Scout and Luna Visit Link

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE MORNING

The door opens slowly.

Maureen and Eric step in first — careful, hopeful.
Their faces soften the second they see him.

Link isn’t in the bed.
He’s seated on the couch in the sitting area of his room, posture upright but relaxed, one arm in a sling.
Intentional. Grounded. Ready.

MAUREEN
Hi, sweetheart.

ERIC
Hey, son.

Link looks up.
For a second, he just takes them in.

LINK
Hi, Mom.
Hi, Dad.

Behind them—
Scout, holding his grandmother’s hand.

Luna, half-hidden, clinging to Jo’s leg.
The room goes still.

Link’s breath catches — not from pain.
From fear.
He doesn’t stand.
Doesn’t reach out.
He lets them see him as he is.

Then Scout sees him.
He instantly lets go of Maureen’s hand and runs toward the couch.

SCOUT
(face lighting up)
Daddy!

Link opens his good arm instinctively.

LINK
(soft, gentle)
Hey, buddy.

Scout launches himself into him on the couch — careful without knowing why.

The hug is awkward. Off-center. Gentle.
But real.

Link exhales — deep, unguarded.
A breath he’s been holding longer than he realized.

Jo’s face softens. 

Luna presses closer into Jo, intimidated by the machines, the room, her daddy.
Jo bends slightly, her voice low and steady.

JO
It’s okay.
Look — Daddy’s right there.

She stays close. A solid presence.
Luna peeks out.

Link notices immediately.
He lowers his voice.

LINK
Hey, Lunabear.

His tone is softer now.
Unprotected.

Luna doesn’t answer.
Just watches him.

LINK (CONT’D)
I know.
I look a little different.

Luna grips Jo’s sleeve tighter.
Jo doesn’t intervene — she just stays.

Scout’s eyes drift over Link’s face, the hospital gown, the sling.
He frowns — processing.

SCOUT
(pointing at the sling)
Does it still hurt?

LINK
Yeah.
A bit.

SCOUT
Is this your new house now?

Link exhales softly — amused and sad.

LINK
No. No.
Just for a few more days. 

Scout wrinkles his nose.

SCOUT
I don’t like it.

LINK
Me neither.

A small smile breaks through — on Scout, on Jo, on Maureen and Eric.

Luna watches the exchange — the familiarity, the rhythm.

Link turns back to her.

LINK (CONT’D)
I like your shoes.

Luna looks down.
Pink sneakers.
She wiggles one foot.

LUNA
They light up.
Mommy got them for me.

LINK
Can I see?

She hesitates.
Then stomps once.
The shoe lights up.

Link reacts like it’s magic.

LINK (CONT’D)
Whoa.

Luna’s mouth twitches — almost a smile.

Maureen’s, Eric’s and Jo’s faces soften.

Scout shifts, settling beside Link on the couch.

SCOUT
Are you gonna be like this for long?

The question is simple.
Honest.
Link doesn’t look away.

LINK
Not forever.

Scout nods, satisfied.

SCOUT
Okay.

Luna steps a little closer.
She points at the sling.

LUNA
What’s that?

Link answers gently.

LINK
That helps my arm rest.
Just for a little while.

Luna studies his face.
Then, slowly, she steps closer — presses briefly against Jo — and leans her head carefully against Link’s side.
Not a hug.
But contact.

LINK (CONT’D)
Have you seen your drawings?
They’re right over there!

He nods towards his bed.

Scout looks at them, then hops down.

SCOUT
Granny, can we draw now?

Maureen nods quickly.

MAUREEN
(smiling)
Of course.
You want to set up right there?

Scout runs towards the other side of the coffee table. 
Luna hesitates — then gives Link a quick, careful hug.
Short.
Intentional.
Then she follows Scout.

Jo sits on the floor with them, settling them in with crayons and paper.
She stays close, one hand resting lightly on Luna’s back.

Link watches — his whole face softened.

Maureen steps closer to the couch, sits right next to him. Then she take Link’s hand, careful of his injuries.

MAUREEN
You scared us.

Link nods.

LINK
I know.

Eric moves to sit on the other side — steady, grounding.

ERIC
We’re just glad you’re okay, son.

A beat.

Link looks back toward the kids — laughing softly now, crayons everywhere.

LINK
I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.

Jo looks over from the other side of the coffee table. 
Their eyes meet.
No words.
Just understanding.

The room feels fuller now.
Warmer.
Life returning — carefully, imperfectly, but real.

Link closes his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opens them, something has settled.
He’s not a patient.
He’s a father.
Still.

FADE OUT.

22.2.5 – Jo Hits Her Limit, Quietly

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – HALLWAY – NOON

JO
(to the kids)
See you in a bit kiddos.
Love you.

LUNA
Bye Mommy. 

The elevator doors slide closed.
Jo stands still for a beat, staring ahead.
The sounds fade — children’s voices, soft laughter, Maureen’s gentle reminders, Eric’s steady presence.

Silence rushes in to replace it.

Jo exhales and turns to head back toward Link’s room.
Then, just barely, she falters.

She places a hand against the wall. Not to stop herself from falling — just to steady the weight that suddenly has nowhere else to go.

A wave of dizziness passes through her.
Her shoulders drop a fraction.

Her eyes close for a second too long. 

She breathes. Slowly. Intentionally.

A nurse passing by slows, noticing.

NURSE
(soft, careful)
You okay?

Jo straightens immediately. Muscle memory.

JO
Yeah.
Just… tired.

The nurse studies her for a beat.

NURSE
You don’t seem okay.
Sit down for a bit.
 
Before Jo can protest, the nurse guides her to sit.

JO
I’m okay.
Just pregnancy dizziness.

Deep down, she knows that’s not all of it.

NURSE (CONT’D)
Do you want some water?
Or something with sugar — it might help.

JO
It's okay.
I'm okay.

The nurse nods, accepting the answer without pushing.

NURSE
Take your time before getting up.
I’m right here if you need anything.

She offers a look that says I see you, then moves on.
Jo stays seated for another breath.
Then another.

Finally, she stands, squares her shoulders, and walks back toward the room.

FADE OUT.

22.2.6 – Jo and Link Find Alignment Again

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – CONTINUOUS

The door opens quietly.
Link is on the couch, alone now.

The room feels different without the kids — emptier, quieter, but not cold.

Jo steps inside.
Her movements are careful. Slightly slower than usual.

Link watches her.
Not searching for reassurance.
Not bracing.
Just looking.

JO
(soft)
They’re gone.

LINK
It got quiet fast.

JO
Yeah. Nothing beats the park and candy.

A small smile crosses her face — then fades.

Jo crosses the room and sits beside him on the couch.
Not collapsing. Not leaning.
Just sitting.

Link waits.

A beat.

LINK
You okay?

Jo doesn’t answer right away.
She looks down at her hands.
Flexes her fingers once, grounding herself.

JO
I’m fine.

Another beat.

JO (CONT’D)
(quieter)
I think I just forgot to breathe for a minute.

Link shifts slightly, careful, turning toward her.

She lets that sit.
Doesn’t explain it. 
Doesn’t wrap it up.

Link studies her face — the exhaustion she didn’t let the kids see.
The cracks she didn’t let him see before.

LINK
You don’t have to do that with me.

Jo looks up.

JO
Do what?

LINK
Hold it all.

She exhales — something loosening.

JO
I didn’t even realize I was.

Silence.
Not awkward. Not heavy.
Just real.

Link reaches out — slow, deliberate — and rests his hand over hers.

She doesn’t flinch.

JO
I was so focused on making sure today felt… normal for them.

LINK
It did.

JO
(smiles faintly)
Yeah.
It really did.

A beat.

LINK
(worried)
I’m starting to understand how much you’ve been carrying.

That lands.

Jo swallows.

JO
We carried it together.
We just didn’t realize it yet.

Their hands stay linked.
No promises.
No resolutions.
Just the quiet certainty that they’re finally looking in the same direction.

Link squeezes her hand once — grounding.

LINK
Stay for a bit?

JO
(soft)
Yeah.

She puts her head on his shoulder. 

A beat.

LINK
Okay.

They sit like that — close, steady, breathing in sync.
Not healed.
But aligned.

LINK puts his left hand on her belly.

LINK
How are my girls in there?

JO
Restless.
Wait for it.

Link stills.

LINK
(smiling, amazed)
Oh my god.
That’s some serious dancing.

JO
Told you.

Link leans in and kisses her gently.

LINK
When’s the next appointment? 

JO
Soon.
I just need to double-check with DeLuca.

LINK
I’d like to see them.

JO
(laughs)
You know we can do that whenever we want.
I'm an OB, remember?

LINK
Tomorrow?

JO
Okay.
 
LINK
Okay.

He kisses her again — soft, unhurried.

She settles back against him.
His hand stays on her belly.

They sit in silence.
Aligned.

FADE OUT.

↑ Back to timeline ↑

Episode 22×03 — “Between Two Lungs” (Canon)

Jo approaches Teddy in the hospital hallway to ask if she knows anything about cars. Her car lease is expiring in twelve hours, and with twins on the way, she and Link desperately need a larger, safer vehicle. She had assumed Link would handle it, but given his slow recovery, he simply can’t, leaving Jo to deal with the entire responsibility on her own.

Teddy, exhausted and tightly wound from the collapse of her marriage tells Jo that the secret is to be clear about what she wants and to stay patient. Jo then asks her if she would come to the dealership with her, and Teddy starts to decline, citing her patient load. But when the elevator opens and Cass unexpectedly appears, Teddy loses her composure for a moment and reconsiders. She turns back to Jo and agrees to go with her to look at cars.

At the dealership, Jo finds a car she loves immediately. It’s above her budget, but she is counting on Teddy’s famous negotiating skills. When the salesperson approaches them, Jo starts excitedly listing all the reasons the car is perfect until Teddy shoots her a look, urging her to stay calm and not show too much enthusiasm.

Teddy tries to take charge, questioning the salesperson’s “final offer.” As they’re in the middle of negotiations, Teddy abruptly excuses herself and walks away, visibly shaken. Jo follows her and finds her in tears inside one of the display cars. Teddy admits that she and Owen are getting divorced. She chose to end it, but now she’s realizing all the family memories she always assumed they would make — like road trips — may never happen. Her kids will grow up in a different version of their family than she imagined.

Jo listens and gently tells her that staying in a marriage where she feels miserable wouldn’t give her children the meaningful memories she wants them to have. They deserve the best version of their mother, and Teddy deserves a life where she can feel joy again. Jo talks honestly about her own divorce, saying it took time to build a new version of her life, but she is happier now than she ever was before. She encourages Teddy to start small, to try to find pieces of joy again, because it does get better even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.

When Teddy returns to the negotiation table, she’s calmer, firmer, and more assertive. She presses the salesperson for a better offer, and when he pushes back, she gets up and walks out. The tactic works — he stops her and agrees to “run the numbers again.”

Later, after they finalize the deal, Jo offers Teddy a ride. Teddy declines, saying she needs air. Jo thanks her for helping, and she tells Teddy once more that it will get better. She just has to give herself permission to be happy again. As Jo walks away, Teddy turns toward Cass, and the two quietly, cautiously reconnect.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.3

22.3.1 – Jo Visits Link Between Patients

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – MORNING

Link is on the couch, scrolling on his iPad — stroller comparisons for twins.
Not focused. Just passing time.

The door opens.
Jo slips in, already pulling her surgery cap down, phone in hand, pager clipped to her scrubs. She’s moving fast but she softens when she sees Link.

LINK
Hey.

JO
Hi.
(leans in, quick kiss)
I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. 
I got pulled into an emergency C-section — 
I was still in the parking lot.

LINK
(gentle)
Babies don’t wait.

JO
Mamas don’t wait.
 
Link smiles.

JO
I’ve got ten minutes.
Maybe less — they’re taking another patient in.

Link smiles - tired, fond.

She drops into the couch next to him.

JO
How are you?

LINK
Bored.
I’ve compared every stroller on the internet
Still can’t figure out which one we should get.

JO
You have to.
Black friday’s coming up.
 
A beat.
 
JO (CONT’D)
So.
I did a thing.

Link looks up immediately.

LINK
That sounds expensive.

JO
Maybe.

She pulls out her phone, swipes, then turns the screen toward him.

A PHOTO — a large, clean, modern SUV.

LINK
…Is that—

JO
—our new car.

A beat.

LINK
You bought a car.

JO
Yeah.

LINK
Like… bought it, bought it?

JO
Lease signed. Insurance switched.
It’s in the parking lot.

He stares at her.
Not upset. Not angry.
Processing.

LINK
I thought we were still talking about it?

JO
We were but— 

LINK
—Why didn’t you tell me?

She watches him now — careful. 

JO
The lease was up.
(beat)
And I wanted it to be a surprise.

That lands differently.

LINK
Oh.

JO
You have enough on your plate right now.

A beat.

Link looks back at the photo.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t push.

LINK (CONT’D)
That’s… bigger than I expected.

JO
It has more storage than my first apartment.

That earns a quiet laugh.

LINK
Your first apartment was basically a car.

JO
Exactly.
This one’s an upgrade.

He studies the photo again.

LINK
I was supposed to handle this.

She doesn’t jump in to contradict him.

JO
(soft)
I know.

Not sharp. Not defensive. Just honest.

JO (CONT’D)
The timing just wasn’t on our side. 
And Teddy had free time. And a terrifying stare.

LINK
That tracks.

JO
She got the monthly payment down, extended warranty, and—
(shrugs)
—it’s basically baby-proofed already.

That lands.

He looks at her.

LINK
I am afraid to ask the price.

JO
It’s a good one.
I just don’t want to ruin the moment with numbers.

He exhales. Something between amusement and weight.

LINK
Yeah right.

JO
Only thing you need to know for now is that we can afford it.

LINK
I should thank Teddy, then.

JO
You should.
(then, more subdued)
And… she and Owen are separating.

LINK
Oh.
I’m sorry to hear that.

JO
(saddened)
Yeah.
That sucks.

Her pager beeps.

JO (CONT’D)
That’s my cue.

She stands, already halfway back into motion.

LINK
Hey.
Thank you for handling it.

JO
(smiling)
I’ll come back after surgery and rounds.

LINK
Try not to buy a house without me.

JO
No promises.

She slips out.

Link stays where he is.
He doesn’t look overwhelmed.
Just aware that life is starting again —
and it’s louder, bigger, and already asking more of them.

FADE OUT.

22.3.2 – Link Walks the Hallway with Jo

A few days later. 

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – HALLWAY – DAY

The hallway is calm. Familiar now.

Link walks beside Jo at an unhurried pace.

He’s dressed. Shoes on. Arm still in a sling.

A PT walks a few steps behind them, gait belt clipped — loose, almost symbolic.

This isn’t his first walk.
It’s just today’s.

Jo stays close, but not hovering.
Her hand occasionally brushes his back — grounding, affectionate.

They reach the end of the hall.
Link pauses. Not from pain. From effort.
He exhales, steadies.

JO
(smiling softly)
You want to head back or keep going?

LINK
Let’s turn back.

No frustration. No pushing too far.
They turn.

As they walk, Teddy steps out of a nearby room, chart in hand. She looks up and clocks them instantly.

TEDDY
Well. Look at you.

Link smiles — small, wry.

LINK
I clean up well for someone who lives here now.

TEDDY
Not for much longer, from what I hear.

LINK
I like the sound of that.

She glances at the sling.

TEDDY (CONT’D)
How’s it feeling?

LINK
Manageable.

TEDDY
That’s doctor code for “still annoying but improving.”

LINK
Exactly.

Teddy nods, satisfied.

TEDDY
(disappearing down the hall)
Don’t overdo it.

LINK
I won’t.

They continue walking.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I hate that this still takes so much out of me.

Jo doesn’t rush to counter it.
She walks with him another few steps before answering.

JO
It won’t always.

LINK
I know.

And he does.
They reach his room.

The PT steps forward, ready to unclip the belt.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m good from here.

The PT hesitates — then nods. Unclips it.

Link takes the last few steps alone.
Not dramatically.
Just… normally.
Jo watches — proud, but quiet about it.

As they enter the room, Link exhales.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m really ready to not live in hallways anymore.

JO
(smiles)
Soon.

She brushes a kiss against his temple.
Not celebratory.
Intimate. Assured.

They step inside together.
The door closes softly behind them.
Not the end.
But clearly, the way out.

FADE OUT.

22.3.3 – Maureen Worries About Link’s Release

The next day. 

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – DAY

The room is fuller than usual.

The kids are settled on the armchair with books, quietly absorbed in their own world.

Link sits upright on the couch, dressed, steadier than before — still healing, but more himself. Jo sits close beside him, legs crossed on the couch. Hand on his.
Maureen and Eric sit in the armchairs across from them.

MAUREEN
So they said… what, a few more days?

LINK
That’s the plan.

ERIC
And then you go straight home?

LINK
(smiles)
Yeah. Where else would I go?

JO
There’ll be a follow-up schedule.
PT, check-ins.
Nothing unexpected.

Maureen nods, absorbing it, but she doesn’t relax. Her worry has already moved ahead of the answers.

MAUREEN
I keep thinking about the stairs at your place.

Link shifts slightly.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
With your arm still healing… and the babies coming…
I don’t know. It just feels like a lot.

JO
(soft, reassuring)
We still have some time before they come.

MAUREEN
I know. I just—
(choosing her words)
Maybe you should look at another place, easier.
While you can.

LINK
Mom—

MAUREEN
Or even rent somewhere temporary. Just at first.

ERIC
Maureen—

MAUREEN
Just until everything settles.

Jo steps in smoothly, instinctively.

JO
We’ll adjust things at home.

MAUREEN
Of course. I just worry about you both.

She gestures vaguely — the apartment, the future, the weight of it all.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
You’re going to need help.

Jo nods, reassuring.

LINK
Mom—

He doesn’t interrupt sharply.
Just… enters the space.

LINK (CONT’D)
We’ll be okay. 
 
The room stills.

MAUREEN
I didn’t say—

LINK
I know.
I just mean… we’ll be okay.

He searches for the right words.

LINK (CONT’D)
I don’t want you rearranging your whole life around me.

What he means stays unsaid:
He needs to feel like himself again.
He can’t do that if everyone else stops moving.

Maureen nods once.
Too quickly.

MAUREEN
Of course.

A small smile. Tight. Carefully held.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I wasn’t trying to take over.
Or overstep.
I just thought… we could stay a bit longer.
At your place.
Help.

Eric clocks it immediately.
Says nothing.
Jo senses the shift, but doesn’t step in this time.

LINK
I really appreciate everything you’ve done.

MAUREEN
It's nothing!

LINK
But I need my kids to see me standing on my own two feet.

A beat.

In the background, Scout laughs at something Luna says. 
Life continues, unaware.

Maureen stands, smoothing her jacket.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I’m going to get them some water.
They haven’t had any in a while.

She heads toward the door.

Eric stays seated, looking at Link — steady, thoughtful.

ERIC
I hear you, son.
We both do.

Link nods.
But the air hasn’t fully settled.
Not broken.
Just… changed.

FADE OUT.

22.3.4 – Jo Talks with Maureen Outside the Hospital

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OUTDOOR BENCH / COURTYARD – CONTINUOUS

The hospital doors slide open.

Maureen sits on a bench just outside, jacket folded neatly beside her.

She’s staring ahead — not lost, just taking air. Holding herself together.

A moment.

Jo steps out, slower now. No pager in hand. No rush.
She spots Maureen, hesitates, then approaches.

JO
(soft)
A nurse mentioned you were out here.
I figured you might want company.

Maureen looks up. A small, polite smile appears instantly — practiced.

MAUREEN
Oh.
I’m fine. Just needed air. 
Hospitals are not my favorite place.
 
Jo nods. Takes that answer as it is. She sits beside her, leaving space.

Silence. Wind. Distant city noise.

JO
I left them with books and a very ambitious plan.

That earns a real smile from Maureen.

MAUREEN
One adult per child.
They should handle it. 

Jo and Maureen share a brief smile.

Silence settles again — comfortable, but charged.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I didn’t mean to make things difficult in there.

JO
You didn’t.

Maureen exhales, but the tension doesn’t fully leave.

MAUREEN
I know he’s ready to go home.
I just—
(trails off)

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
When something like this happens…
you don’t stop seeing all the ways it could go wrong.

Jo doesn’t answer right away.
She looks down for a moment — not away, just inward.

Then:

JO
That kind of fear doesn’t just turn off.

Maureen nods.
Not relieved — recognized.
She stops. Tries again.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
These past few months… my role was clear.
Show up. Help. Stay.

A beat.

Then, quieter — almost surprised by her own words:

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I don’t really know what to do when I’m not needed anymore.

The words hang between them.

Jo doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She breathes out slowly.

Then back to Maureen.

JO
(gently)
That makes sense.

Maureen swallows. The admission has opened something.

MAUREEN
I keep telling myself this is good news.
That we should all be relieved.

She glances back toward the hospital doors.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Being here brings back things I thought I’d packed away.

She shakes her head, searching.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
When you’ve watched your child fight for his life once…
your body remembers before your mind does.

A quiet beat.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
You start to hate helplessness.
And lately… at least I knew what to do.

She hesitates, then adds — softer:

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I don’t want him to think I’m smothering him.

Jo meets her eyes.

JO
He doesn’t.

Maureen studies her, needing to believe it.

JO (CONT’D)
He just needs to feel like himself again.
And you taught him how to do that long before any of this.

That lands. Maureen exhales, something easing.

MAUREEN
(smaller)
I suppose I forgot that letting go is part of helping too.

JO
It is.
(pauses)
But letting go doesn’t mean disappearing.

Maureen absorbs that.
Jo adds, lightly — but grounded in reality:

JO (CONT’D)
Four kids under four…
we’re still going to need all the help we can get.

They share a small smile. 

JO (CONT’D)
Just… maybe not in crisis mode anymore.
Well… 

They share a soft, knowing laugh.

A beat.

MAUREEN
(chuckles softly)
I don’t know if I remember how to do anything else.

JO
We’ll figure it out.
Together.

No hug. No declaration.

Just two women sitting side by side, aligned.
The wind shifts. A distant ambulance passes.

Jo stands first, offering her hand — not urgent, not rescuing.

JO (CONT’D)
Come on.

Maureen looks up at her.

JO (CONT’D)
Let’s get that water, shall we?

Maureen smiles — real this time — and takes her hand.
They head back toward the doors.

Two women who love the same man, learning how to protect him without holding him still.

FADE OUT.

22.3.5 – Jo Misses Her Ultrasound

Another day.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – HALLWAY – DAY

Jo moves quickly down the hall, phone in one hand, patient chart tucked under her arm.
Focused. Capable. Running on momentum.

Carina DeLuca steps out of a nearby room. They nearly collide.

CARINA
Oh — sorry.

JO
(smiles)
That one’s on me.

They fall into step together for a few paces.

CARINA
I heard Link is almost out.

JO
A few more days.

CARINA
Good.

A beat. Then — professional, easy.

CARINA (CONT’D)
I texted you earlier. 
Were we still on for your ultrasound this morning?

Jo keeps walking.
Half a step ahead.
Then it lands.

She stops.
Turns back slightly, blinking — not panicked, just caught.

JO
The—
Oh my god.

She looks at Carina now. Fully.

JO (CONT’D)
I completely forgot. 

She doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t joke.
Just the truth.

Carina doesn’t judge. Carina checks the clock on the wall — instinctive.

CARINA
It was at nine.

JO
That completely slipped my mind.

Carina studies her — gently, clinically, human.

CARINA
No worries, we’ll reschedule. 

JO (CONT’D)
Could we… move it to tomorrow at the same time?

Carina looks at her phone calendar.

CARINA
Tomorrow at nine works for me.

Jo exhales.

JO
Thank you.
Don’t tell Link I forgot.

Carina looks at her for half a second before nodding.

They stand there a moment longer than necessary.

Carina tilts her head, gently.

CARINA
You’ve been moving very fast lately.

Jo smiles — small, tired. Not defensive.

JO
There’s been a lot to juggle.
With Link coming home. The twins on the way.
 
CARINA
I know.
(pauses)
But you’re carrying those twins.

That lands differently.

Jo doesn’t answer right away.

CARINA (CONT’D)
You don’t have to stop.
Just… slow down a little.

Jo exhales. A hand briefly touches her belly — unconscious.

JO
I’m fine.

Carina nods — accepts it without argument.

CARINA
I believe you.
(smiles softly)
I just want you to still be fine in a few weeks.

A beat.

JO
Yeah.

CARINA
Survival mode doesn’t switch off on command.

Jo meets her eyes. That’s the truth.

JO
It should.

CARINA
(smiles, kind)
It doesn’t.

Another beat.

CARINA (CONTINUOUS)
I’ll see you tomorrow. 

JO
Thank you.

Carina squeezes her arm once, then heads down the hall.

Jo takes a few steps.
Then slows.
She looks down at her phone.
Scrolls.
The appointment is there.
9:00 AM.
MISSED.

Jo closes her eyes.
Just for a second.
Not panic.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
She exhales. Straightens.
Keeps walking.

FADE OUT.

22.3.6 – Link Prepares for Discharge

A few days later.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – NIGHT

The room is dim. Quiet.
City lights glow faintly through the window.

Link is on the couch, scrolling on his phone without real purpose.
One leg stretched out, arm in a sling.
Discharge papers stacked neatly on the coffee table.

The door opens softly.

Jo enters, coat over her arm. She looks tired — not wrecked, just spent in the way long days leave you.

LINK
Hey.

JO
Hey.

She crosses to him, presses a soft kiss to his lips, then drops onto the couch beside him.
No rush.

JO (CONT’D)
Big day tomorrow?

Link nods.

LINK
Yeah.

A beat.

JO
You okay?

LINK
Yeah…

Not convincing. Not dramatic either.
Jo doesn’t push. She knows better.

Another beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I have waited so long for this moment—

Jo looks at him now.

LINK (CONT’D)
And now it’s here.

He exhales, quiet.

LINK (CONT’D)
I feel completely lost.

JO
The kids can’t wait to have you back.

LINK
I know.
And I can’t wait to be back for them. 

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
Scout asked me the other day if I could carry two babies with one arm.

A small breath of a smile.

Jo’s face softens.

Then—

LINK (CONT’D)
But they won’t clear me for the OR for a while.

There it is.

JO
I know.

LINK
Everyone keeps talking like going home is the finish line.

He exhales, quiet frustration.

LINK (CONT’D)
Like being better…
but not entirely back.

Jo lets it.

LINK (CONT’D)
Here, at least, no one expects anything from me except healing.

JO
And at home?

LINK
At home, life keeps moving.
Which is good but—

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
—I don’t want this to be all I am.

Jo takes his hand. Grounds him — not to reassure, but to stay.

JO
It won’t be.

LINK
It doesn’t feel like that yet.

JO
I know.
But you did the hardest part...

A beat.

JO (CONT'D)
And you’re more than the part you’re missing right now.

She rests her forehead against his.

JO (CONT’D)
You don’t have to figure it out tomorrow.

LINK
Feels like I should.

JO
You almost died.

He looks at her.

JO (CONT’D)
You’re allowed some time where the only thing you do is heal.

Silence. Real.

LINK
I’ve had plenty of time already.
Lying here. 

JO (CONT’D)
You’ll get there, okay?
Let’s take it one day at a time.
 
Simple. Open. True.

Link nods — not because it’s solved, but because it’s enough for now.

LINK
I love you so much. You know that?

She settles against him. His good arm comes around her carefully. He leans in and kisses her softly.

JO
I’ll come get you tomorrow morning.
And we’ll start from there.

They sit like that — breathing in sync.
Not healed.
Not resolved.
But facing forward.

Outside, the city keeps moving.
Inside, they let themselves move slower.

FADE OUT.

↑ Back to timeline ↑

Episode 22×04 — “Goodbye Horses” (Canon)

Owen wheels Link into the parking lot: he has finally been discharged from the hospital. He is still recovering but visibly eager to return to something resembling normal life. Owen advises him to pace himself and build rest into his rehab.

When Teddy and Cass arrive together for a seminar, the atmosphere immediately becomes awkward. Owen senses the tension, and Link finds himself unintentionally standing in the middle of Owen’s marital collapse.

Later, while Jo is busy with a patient in premature labor, Link refuses to wait idly in the car. He drifts back into the hospital, drawn by instinct, and wanders into a trauma bay where Owen and Jules are evaluating Vince, a teenager injured during a hobby-horse competition. Without thinking, Link slips into surgeon mode, offering observations, asking questions, and trying to help.

Owen shuts him down, reminding him that he is not cleared to work. Link bristles but doesn’t fully argue. Despite not being allowed to participate, he can’t stop thinking like a surgeon and continues to offer input. Vince asks for Link specifically, and Link stays close through the surgery — a painful reminder of what he can no longer do.

After Vince’s surgery, Link encounters Owen in the scrub room. Having heard from Jo about Owen’s divorce, Link tries to check in and offer support. Owen, raw and defensive, lashes out, telling Link he shouldn’t even be at the hospital. Stung, Link doesn’t escalate and leaves quietly.

At the end of the day, Owen finds Link waiting for Jo. This time, Owen apologizes. He admits he’s been lost, overwhelmed, and angry, and that Link was the only one who actually checked in on him. Link accepts the apology and assures Owen he’s there if he needs a friend. He then leaves to meet Jo at the car, who is very much in need of ice cream.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.4

22.4.1 – Link and Jo Leave the Hospital Together

EXT. HOSPITAL PARKING LOT – LATE AFTERNOON

Link walks toward the car, moving slowly but determined.

It’s his first time outside the hospital as something other than a patient.

Two months of recovery. Of fear and waiting.
Two months away from his kids.
Two months of realizing how close he came to losing everything.

His arm is still in a sling — a constant reminder of the day his life almost ended.

Jo is already in the driver’s seat.

Her hands rest on the steering wheel, shoulders slightly rounded, posture still caught in work mode.

She looks up the moment she sees him — relief, guilt, exhaustion all tangled together.

Link opens the passenger door and climbs in carefully.
The door shuts.

JO
(too quick, apologetic)
I’m sorry, I am sorry. 
I kept checking the time, but they pulled me into another emergency. I couldn’t get away.

Link watches her for a beat before answering.

LINK
It’s okay.
I spent the day in Trauma.

Jo blinks, processing.

JO
(confused)
Wait — what?

LINK
(smiles)
Not as a patient. 
I, uh… followed a trauma case.
Sat in on the surgery.

Jo turns toward him now, really looking.

JO
(teasing)
You’re moving quickly.

LINK
(teasing, gentle)
Well… my wife abandoned me.
I had to find purpose somewhere.

She exhales — half a laugh, half relief.

JO
I really wish I’d gotten you out of there earlier.

LINK
Hey.
Don’t worry about it.

He leans over and kisses her, gentle, grateful, grounding.

Jo closes her eyes for half a second longer than necessary.

JO
Alright.
Let’s get you home.

LINK
Yeah.

She reaches for the ignition. A small pause.

LINK
(joking)
Nice car, huh?
You really weren’t kidding when you said you went all in.

JO
You don’t like our new car?

LINK
I do. I do.

As she shifts in her seat, Jo rubs the back of her neck — then her lower back — absentminded, unconscious.

Link notices.

LINK
You look exhausted.
You sure you don’t want me to drive?

Jo drops her hand, waves it off like it’s nothing.

JO
Pretty sure you’re absolutely not allowed to drive yet.

LINK
(can’t quite hide it)
Yeah…

Not anger.
Just frustration — with timing, with limits, with his own body.

LINK (CONT’D)
Let’s go get that ice cream before we go home.

Jo looks at him. Really looks at him.
A small smile breaks through.

JO
Okay.

She starts the engine.

They pull out of the parking spot — not rushing, not lingering.
Just moving.
Home can wait a few more minutes.

FADE OUT.

22.4.2 – Link Comes Home to His Kids

INT. JO AND LINK’S APARTMENT – EVENING

Link opens the door slowly, almost reverently.
Jo stands just behind him, watching him as he steps inside his home for the first time in nearly two months.

The apartment is a loving mess: toys everywhere, blankets thrown over the couch, half-built pillow forts, kids’ drawings taped crookedly on the walls.

On the sofa, Maureen and Eric are reading to Luna and Scout, who are curled into their grandparents’ sides.

For a moment, nobody notices Link.

Then Luna looks up.
Her eyes widen.

LUNA
Daddy!

SCOUT
Daddy!

Both kids slide off the couch and run toward him.

Link instinctively crouches — even though the movement hurts, and the kids crash into his arms.

LINK
(grinning, emotional)
Hi, monkeys!

He pulls them close with one arm, breathing them in like oxygen. 

Jo watches, deeply emotional, brushing one tear away quickly — then steadying herself.

LINK
(gentle)
Careful, careful… Daddy’s still a little hurt.

Luna touches the sling with careful fingers.

LUNA
Why do you still have this?
I thought you were healed.

LINK
I know, sweet pea.
Daddy’s shoulder still needs a little more time.

Scout wraps his little arms around Link’s neck.

SCOUT
I am so happy to see you Daddy.

Link squeezes both kids, voice breaking.

LINK
I missed you so much.

Behind them, Maureen and Eric stand. 

Maureen’s eyes shine — relief layered over something quieter, harder to name.

Link rises slowly, taking the kids’ hands in his good one, and walks toward his parents.

Maureen opens her arms and pulls him into a warm hug.

MAUREEN
I’m so glad you’re here.

LINK
(soft, sincere)
Me too, Mom.

They stay like that for a moment. Then Link turns to his dad. 

ERIC
Son…

LINK
Dad.

Eric pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes.

ERIC
Look at you… back where you belong. 

LINK
(smiles softly)
So good to be home.

Eric squeezes his good shoulder.
Everyone softens — eyes shiny, smiles trembling.
The fear has passed. The relief hasn’t.

Luna notices Jo brushing a tear, slips her small hand into hers.

Jo tries to lighten the room.

JO
Okay… so what were you guys doing?

MAUREEN
We were reading the little mouse story…
(smiles)
For the fifth time.

JO
Oh, I can relate.

MAUREEN
They were waiting for you for bedtime.

That lands.

Link looks around now — the chaos, the life that kept going without him.

LINK
(half-laugh, half-tease)
What happened here?

MAUREEN
We were… having fun.
(glances at Eric)
Your kids have a lot of energy…
But everything was under control.

ERIC
(smirking)
More or less.

Link shakes his head affectionately.

LINK
I don’t even know how to thank you both.

MAUREEN
Please. You don’t have to.

LINK
I mean it.
It meant the world to me.
And to Jo.

In the background, Jo straightens.

JO
Alright, kiddos. Bedtime.

LUNA
We want Daddy to read the story!

Jo looks at Link, playful but careful.

JO
You’re up!

Link laughs softly, touched.

LINK
Okay, okay. But first — brushing teeth.

JO
You need help upstairs? 
You’re not supposed to lift anything.

LINK
(smiles)
I’ll be fine.
(to kids)
Come on, say goodnight to Granny and Grandpa.

Luna and Scout hug Maureen and Eric tightly.

Link follows the kids upstairs, moving slowly, but with purpose.

Maureen watches the staircase after they disappear — just a beat too long.
Then she looks away.

As Jo turns back toward the living room, Maureen reaches down and straightens a blanket that’s already perfectly fine.

Eric quietly grabs his coat.

Maureen does the same — then pauses, hand still on the fabric.

A breath.

Then:

MAUREEN
(soft)
We’re gonna let you settle…
(find the words)
and find your footing.

Jo looks at her — surprised, grateful.

JO
Oh — you can stay for dinner if you want.

ERIC
You need rest tonight.

Jo hesitates, then nods.

JO
You sure?

MAUREEN
Absolutely.
(softening)
Do you need anything else before we go?

Jo steps forward and hugs Maureen.

JO
Thank you.
For everything.

Maureen holds her tight.

MAUREEN
You’ve been a rock, Jo.
(emotional)
I’m so grateful my son has you.

Jo pulls back, emotional.

JO
I couldn’t have done any of this without you both.
(beat)
You’re not going anywhere… right?

Maureen smiles — the truth in her eyes layered, unresolved.

MAUREEN
What kind of parents —
what kind of grandparents — 
would we be if we left when you need us the most?

Jo smiles, soft and touched.

JO
Thank you.

Eric kisses her cheek.

ERIC
Our Airbnb is just a few minutes away.
One call, and we’re here.

JO
Thank you.
I’m on leave tomorrow.
We haven’t planned anything yet but we’ll call you.

MAUREEN
We’d love that.
Goodnight, sweetie.
(then, gently)
Take care of my son.
And of yourselves.
Try to rest.

They leave quietly.
Jo stands in the now-peaceful apartment, hand on her belly, taking in the moment that felt impossible just days ago.

She sinks onto the couch, the moment the door closes — exhausted, relieved, overwhelmed.
Her whole body exhales.

Upstairs, faint laughter.
Downstairs, stillness.
Life is back.
And it’s already asking for more.

FADE OUT.

22.4.3 – Jo and Link Find a Quiet Intimacy

INT. JO AND LINK’S APARTMENT – CONTINUOUS

Jo is curled up on the couch, drained — from the day, from all the days.

Link walks down the stairs slowly, carefully. 

LINK
(soft)
They’re out.
God I missed this.

JO
(joking)
You won’t say that in a few days…

LINK
(sincere)
Trust me.
I’m not taking any of this for granted anymore.

He sits beside her, slipping his good arm around her shoulders.
She melts against him instantly.

LINK
I missed this most of all.

They sit like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, breathing in sync.
Jo is quiet — exhausted, relieved, overwhelmed.

JO
(whispering)
I can’t believe you’re home.

LINK
(meeting her eyes)
I know.

They look at each other, nothing to explain, nothing to hide.
Jo leans in and kisses him, slow and soft.

LINK 
(breathless whisper)
God… I missed this.

Jo kisses him again before he can finish — gentle, grounding. 
He leans closer, then winces as the sling shifts and holds him back.

LINK
(chuckles, frustrated)
Damn sling…

Jo cups his cheek.

JO
I am exhausted.
I just want to lie in bed with you.
Is that okay?

He studies her face — not worried, not disappointed.
Just taking her in.

LINK 
(soft, warm)
Of course it’s okay.

A beat.

LINK
Do you want to eat something?

JO
I am not hungry. You?

LINK
Not really. 
I knew I shouldn’t have taken those 3 balls of ice cream.

She smiles.

LINK (CONT’D)
Let’s just go to bed.

He stands slowly and offers his hand.
Jo takes it, letting him help her up.

He then kisses the side of her neck from behind, his good arm around her waist, careful, close.

LINK
(whisper-soft)
You’re so beautiful.

JO
(smiling, rolling her eyes)
Come on. Look at me. 
I look like an elephant.

LINK 
(quiet, sincere)
No, you’re perfect.

Jo lets out a small laugh.

JO
Stop… you’re gonna make me change my mind.

LINK
(playfully naive)
About what?

They smile, fingers intertwining naturally, and walk slowly upstairs together.

FADE OUT.

INT. BEDROOM - LATER

Jo is on her back in a nightdress.

Link, wearing only pajama pants, curls carefully against her, leaning on his good shoulder, his head tucked into her neck.

LINK
(soft)
I love you.

Relief and tenderness wrap around them like a blanket.

JO
(looking at him)
I love you.

He kisses her — her closed eyes, her nose, her mouth.

LINK
Now it’s my turn to take care of you three.

JO
(smiles)
You're forgetting two kids.

The babies move.

JO (CONT'D)
Wow.
Somebody’s waking up.

Link tries to reach her belly but the sling stops him.
Frustration flickers across his face.

LINK
(frustrated)
There are three people in this marriage now — you, me, and that damn sling.

Jo laughs softly.

JO
You won't keep it forever.

LINK
Yeah… but I can’t wait to get rid of it.

They fall into a comfortable silence.

Jo’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder.
Link’s breath evens out against her neck.

The room feels warm, safe — like the world has finally stopped spinning.

Jo exhales, long and slow.

For the first time in weeks, her body unclenches.
Link buries his face in her neck.

A quiet, shared stillness.
They’re home. Together.

LINK
Good night my love.

JO
(switching off the light)
Good night.

FADE OUT.

22.4.4 – Jo and Link Talk About the Future

Another day. 

INT. JO AND LINK'S APPARTMENT – BEDROOM – NIGHT

The room is dark, quiet.
Jo lies on her side, facing Link. Eyes closed but not fully asleep.

Link is beside her, awake, staring at the ceiling. 

A long, comfortable silence.

LINK
(low, thoughtful)
This place is going to feel very small very fast.

Jo hums softly — acknowledging, not engaging.

JO
Mm.

Link shifts slightly, careful.

LINK
Not right away.
But once the twins are here…
We’re going to need more room.

Jo shifts closer, resting her head against his chest.

JO
Probably.

There’s no resistance in it.
Just agreement without energy.

Link turns his head toward her.

LINK
I’ve been thinking we might need to look for something bigger.
Not now.
Just… soon.

JO
I agree.
But I don’t have the energy for that right now. 

Her voice is soft.
Present.
But she doesn’t add more.

Link lets it sit.

Another pause.

LINK
And when the twins are born…
I’m definitely taking extended paternity leave.

Jo opens her eyes now, looking at him.

JO
You are?

LINK
Yeah.
With twins?
That’s not even a question.

A small smile ghosts across her face.

LINK (CONT’D)
I want to be home with you.
Get us through that first stretch.
Figure out our rhythm before anything else starts moving again.

Jo studies him — touched, a little overwhelmed.

JO
(teases him gently)
After months of longing for that OR.

LINK
(smiles faintly)
Yeah.
But I’d hate missing that more.

A quiet beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
And after that… when I do go back…
I was thinking part-time, at first.

Jo exhales slowly.

LINK (CONT’D)
Ease into it.
Especially if the twins are at daycare at the hospital —
it could actually be… smooth.

He hesitates, then adds gently:

LINK (CONT’D)
And maybe when you go back…
that could give you some room too.
If you want it.

That’s the moment.
Jo doesn’t pull away — but the effort to hold all of that is visible.

She pauses, searching for honesty.

JO
I want to hear all of this.
I do.

A beat.

JO (CONT’D)
I just…
I can’t really think that far ahead right now.

It’s not dismissal.
It’s capacity.

Link nods immediately.

LINK
I know.

He shifts closer, protective, grounding.

LINK (CONT’D)
We still got time to figure it all out. 

Her eyelids are already heavy.

JO (CONT’D)
I’m just so tired.

Link watches her breathing slow as the words trail off.

The future — bigger space, babies, leave, daycare, a gentler return — hangs there quietly.
Unfinished.
Unburdened.

LINK
(soft)
Okay.

He doesn’t push.
He just stays.

Jo drifts off, still holding his arm.

Link remains awake a moment longer, staring into the dark.

For the first time, it’s clear to him:
She’s not avoiding what comes next.
She’s already carrying it.

Carefully, he turns toward her, protective.
Tomorrow can wait.

FADE OUT.

22.4.5 – Link Tells Jo She Should Rest

INT. JO AND LINK’S APARTMENT – MORNING

Soft morning light filters into the apartment.

The sound of quiet play drifts from the living room — Luna and Scout on the floor, absorbed in something only they understand.

In the kitchen, Jo moves slowly, deliberately.
She butters toast.
Cuts fruit.
Lunchboxes already sit on the counter — packed, lids closed.

There’s no rush in her movements.
Just momentum.

She pauses once, resting her hand on the counter, rubbing her lower back — not dramatic. Habit.

Link appears in the kitchen, hair rumpled, still half-asleep.

He stops when he takes it in.
The kids awake.
Breakfast nearly ready.
Lunches packed.
He’s missed the start of the day.

LINK
Hey.

Jo turns, offers him a small smile.

JO
Morning sleepy-head.

He steps closer, kisses her.

Then, softer:

LINK
I crashed out.
I didn’t hear them.

JO
Yeah, I saw that.

LINK
What time did they get up?

JO
6:15.

LINK
You could’ve woken me.

JO
(shrugging gently)
It’s alright.
I was awake anyway.

She turns back to the counter, finishes slicing an apple.

Link watches her for a beat longer than necessary.

LINK
You already packed lunches.

JO
Yeah.
It’s all ready.

She slides a plate toward the edge of the counter.

JO (CONT’D)
Can you handle breakfast and help them get dressed?
I’d like to take a hot shower, my back’s been killing me.

Not stressed.
Just stating a fact.

LINK
Of course.

He moves toward the living room — then hesitates.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ll come with you today. 
I’ll try to catch up with Owen — just to see if he can clear me for consult.

Jo looks at him, surprised — not resistant.

JO
Okay.

Link heads to the kids.

LINK
Come on, guys.
Breakfast.

Jo exhales — slow, controlled.
Jo leans against the counter, eyes closed for just a second too long.

Link clocks it when he comes back.
He steps closer, quiet.

LINK
Jo.

She opens her eyes.

JO
I’m fine.

It’s automatic.
Link shakes his head slightly — not arguing.

LINK
I know.

A pause.

LINK (CONT’D)
You don’t have to do everything.
I’m here now.

That lands.

Jo looks away, swallowing.

JO
I know.

LINK
Let me help.

He reaches for her hand.

LINK (CONT’D)
And maybe, you should slow down a bit at work.

JO
I have patients that need me and I have to—

LINK
—make sure things don’t fall apart.

He finishes it for her, gently.

A beat.

Jo exhales. Just a little.

JO
I don’t really know how to stop.

LINK
You don’t have to.
Just slow down a bit.

He squeezes her hand.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ll come with you.
We’ll drop the kids.
Then I’ll steal you for lunch.

A small smile breaks through her fatigue.

JO
You’re very optimistic.

LINK
(smiles)
I’ve been told I can be convincing.
 
That does it.
Jo nods once.

JO
Okay.

Link kisses her temple — careful, steady.
The kids call out from the table.

LUNA (O.S.)
Daddy!
Toast please.

Link smiles.

LINK
Coming!

He looks back at Jo.

LINK (CONT’D)
Go take your shower.
I’ve got this.

She hesitates — then goes upstairs, one hand resting on her belly.

She exhales.

Link watches her up the stairs. 
The kitchen is quiet again.
He moves toward the kids — already stepping in.

FADE OUT.

22.4.6 – Link Finds His Footing Again

Same day. 

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – MORNING

The hospital hums the way it always has.
Stretchers rolling. Voices overlapping. The familiar chaos.

Link walks slowly down the hallway, sling still on, posture careful — not fragile, but aware.

People notice him.
A nurse offers a quick smile.
Someone murmurs, “Good to see you back.”
Another gives him a nod — warm, tentative.

He belongs here.
And still — not quite.

Link pauses near the OR board, reading it out of habit.
His name isn’t there.

He exhales, then turns as Owen approaches.

OWEN
Hey.

LINK
Hey. 
Just the man I wanted to see.

They stand there for a beat — two surgeons in a space that still smells like adrenaline.

OWEN
You’re not cleared yet.
You know that right?

LINK
Yeah.
Couldn’t stay away.

Owen eyes the sling.

OWEN
Obviously, you can’t operate with that arm.

Link nods. No argument.

LINK
I know.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
But I wanted to talk to you.
I was thinking… consult.

Owen considers this. Not dismissive. Thoughtful.

OWEN
That could work.

Link lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

OWEN (CONT’D)
You’d still need clearance.
Short stints. No heroics.

LINK
(smiles faintly)
I’m done with heroics.

Owen studies him — really looks.

OWEN
You're in a rush to get back?

Link shakes his head.

LINK
Not fully.
When the twins are born, I’ll take time.
Real time.

Owen nods. Approving. Respectful.

OWEN
That makes sense.

A pause.

LINK
I just—
I need to do something right now.
If I stay home alone one more day, I’m going to lose my mind.

That’s the most honest thing he’s said.
Owen doesn’t tease. He doesn’t minimize it.

OWEN
Yeah.
I get that.

Another beat.

OWEN (CONT’D)
We’ll make consult work.
Ease you back in.

LINK
Thanks.

Owen starts to leave — then stops.

OWEN
PT going well?

LINK
Not as fast as I want.
But yeah.

OWEN
For what it’s worth…
It’s good to have you back.

Link swallows.

LINK
It’s good to be back.

OWEN
Just stop by HR, get the paperwork started.
I’ll let everyone know you’re back in a consult role.

LINK
Okay.

Owen disappears down the hall.
Link stays where he is for a moment.

The hospital buzzes around him — cases, urgency, life moving fast.

Link looks once more toward the ORs.
Then he turns away.

INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR – LATER

Link walks out of HR. 

He carries a thin patient file under his arm. Just enough to feel useful.

He checks his watch.
Then his phone.

A text from Jo:
I’m downstairs.
Ready for that lunch you promised.

A smile tugs at his mouth.
He walks with more purpose now — not retreating, not lingering.

As he passes a group of residents, one of them looks up.

RESIDENT
Dr. Lincoln—
You sticking around?

Link doesn’t stop walking.

LINK
(grinning)
Consult.
Not now though.
I’m taking my wife to lunch.

The resident smiles.

RESIDENT
Good to have you back!

Link exits toward the elevators.

INT. HOSPITAL – NURSES’ STATION – 5 MINUTES LATER

Jo stands near the nurses’ station, finishing a conversation with Miranda Bailey.

She shifts her weight slightly, rubbing her lower back absentmindedly.

Link approaches from down the hall.
Bailey spots him first.

BAILEY
Well.
Look who’s roaming the halls again. 

LINK
(smiles)
Word travels fast.

BAILEY
It does when Owen Hunt’s involved.
(she laughs)
I ran into him in the elevator just now. 

Link glances at Jo — playful, conspiratorial.

LINK
Guess I didn’t even get to make the announcement.

JO
(teasing)
I’m honored to be second.

Bailey clocks the easy intimacy, smiles.

BAILEY
I’ll let you two escape before someone pages you.

She steps away.

Link turns fully to Jo now.

LINK
You hungry?

JO
Always.

He gently slides his good arm around her back.

LINK
Good.
Come with me.

JO
Where are we going?

LINK
(smiling)
Don’t try to guess, that’ll ruin it. 

JO
You know I'm driving, right?
You'll have to tell me eventually. 

LINK
I'll do the GPS.

As they start down the hallway together, Link leans in and presses a brief, soft kiss to her temple.

Nothing dramatic.
Just familiar.

They walk on — shoulder to shoulder — disappearing into the flow of the hospital.

FADE OUT.

22.4.7 – Talking About the Names – In Bed

INT. JO AND LINK'S APARTMENT – BEDROOM – NIGHT

Jo and Link are lying in bed. The lights are off except for a bedside lamp. Jo is on her side, one hand resting on her belly. Link is half propped on a pillow, reading a book.

JO
We haven’t even talked about the names.

Link exhales dramatically, drops the book on his chest.

LINK
We have to find two. Like one isn’t hard enough.

JO
(smiles faintly)
I’ve been thinking about one for a while… but I’m not sure you’ll like it.

Link closes the book, sets it on his nightstand, and turns toward her carefully, leaning on his good shoulder.

LINK
Try me.

JO
Okay.
(after a beat)
Harriet.
After my home ec teacher. Mrs. Schmidt.

Link blinks.

LINK
Which one is that?

JO
I told you about her.

He gives her an apologetic half-smile.

JO
The one who let me into school early so I could shower.
She came to my graduation.
She was the only adult who ever believed in me when I was growing up.

LINK
Yeah. The one who gave you the watch?

JO
Yeah.

A quiet settles between them.

LINK
Hmmm.

He hesitates.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m just… not sure I feel it.

JO
Why not?

LINK
I don’t know. It gives me… old lady vibes.

Jo exhales, half amused, half disappointed.

JO
Did you tell Jackson that?

LINK
Nobody asked me.
And would you really name your daughter the same name as your friend’s kid?

JO
I’d call him first but—

LINK
I don’t know. I just… don’t feel it.
If one of my friends named their kid the same as mine, I’d find it weird.

A beat.

JO
It’s the first name I ever imagined giving a daughter.

That lands.

LINK
I know.
I just… want to feel that too.

She nods, but it’s the kind of nod that absorbs something.

JO
Hattie then. That’s the diminutive. That’s cute.

Link tests it quietly under his breath.

LINK
Hattie.

He tilts his head.

LINK
Better… but I’m still not there.

He shifts closer, carefully maneuvering his sling so he can rest his hand over her belly.

LINK (CONT’D)
I want to love it when I say it.

Jo watches him. He means it.

JO
Yeah.
I guess I already do.

It’s soft. Honest. Not accusatory.

He looks at her. He hears that.

LINK
What about Brooke?

JO
Absolutely not.

A beat.

JO
I hate when people name their kid after themselves. It’s weird.

LINK
You’re not Brooke anymore.
(flirting)
And it could be a nod to your resilience. Your beauty. Your grit.

Jo smiles. Then it fades.

JO
Yeah, right.
Or a daily reminder of how crappy my childhood was.

LINK
You kept Brooke as your middle name.

JO
Because I didn’t want to forget where I came from.
But I don’t want it in my face every single day.

Link immediately softens.

He brushes his thumb gently across her stomach.

LINK
Okay. No Brooke.

A small beat.

LINK
(lightly)
What about Melody? We love music.

JO
Seriously?

She narrows her eyes at him.

JO (CONT’D)
This conversation is going nowhere.

LINK
We are brainstorming. That’s how it works.

JO
Let’s table it. I’m tired.

LINK
(teasing)
Fine. But I’m not giving up on Melody.

JO
Stop. Be serious.

She taps his chest and he winces.

Pain flashes across his face.

JO
(apologetic)
Babe, I’m sorry!

LINK
(laughing through it)
It’s okay. I’m being dramatic.

JO
No, I’m sorry.

They laugh, but it’s softer now.

He shifts closer, resting his forehead gently against hers.

LINK
Whatever their names…

He glances down at her belly.

LINK (CONT’D)
Those girls are going to have the best genes.

JO
I don’t know anything about mine.

He doesn’t joke this time.

He pulls her closer carefully.

LINK
If they’re anything like you…
I’m confident they’ll be the strongest, smartest, most beautiful girls—

JO
(doesn't let him finish)
Nice save.

LINK
I’m serious.

He kisses her shoulder.

They look at each other — soft, steady — and kiss gently.

But when she settles back against the pillow, her eyes stay open a moment longer.

Thinking.
The name still there.
Unsettled.

FADE OUT.

22.4.8 – Talking About the Names – At the Table

INT. JO AND LINK'S APARTMENT – KITCHEN – NOON

The kitchen is warm and lived-in.
Sunlight spills across the dinner table. Crumbs everywhere. A half-colored drawing abandoned near Luna’s plate. A sippy cup sitting dangerously close to the edge.The smell of roasted chicken and baked vegetables lingers in the air.

Jo, Link, Luna and Scout sit gathered around the table.
Jo is cutting Scout’s food into smaller pieces, patient, unhurried, completely present.

SCOUT
(shaking his head)
I don’t want it.

He pushes a carrot slice dramatically to the side.

JO
Okay. That’s fine.
Just one more bite, and then you’re done.

Her voice is soft, steady — not negotiating, not threatening. Just calm.

She leans closer, lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret.

JO (CONT’D)
It makes your muscles strong.

Scout eyes her suspiciously, then pokes the carrot with his finger.
Across the table, Luna swings her legs under her chair.

LUNA
Daddy, make him eat like you make me eat.

LINK
I do not make you eat.
You eat all by yourself.

LUNA
When you do the airplane.

Link grins.

He scoops a forkful and makes an exaggerated airplane noise toward Scout. Scout laughs, opens his mouth without realizing it.

JO
(to Luna, smiling)
See? Teamwork.

Luna beams. She likes being included.
There’s a small, quiet domestic peace in the chaos — clinking forks, little voices, the normal rhythm of a family meal.

Then—

LUNA
Daddy, what are the babies’ names?

Jo and Link both pause, just slightly.

LINK
We don’t know yet.

LUNA
Why don’t you know?

LINK
Because we haven’t decided yet.

A flicker passes between him and Jo. Unspoken.

LINK (CONT’D)
You want to help us?

Both kids light up immediately.

SCOUT
Yeah!

LUNA
Yes!

LINK
Okay. What should we call your sisters?

The suggestions come fast and unfiltered.

LUNA
Skye! Like in Paw Patrol!

SCOUT
Chase!

LUNA
Noooo, that’s a boy.

SCOUT
Princess Spider-Man!

Jo laughs despite herself.

LINK
Princess Spider-Man Lincoln.

Strong contender.

LUNA
Elsa!

SCOUT
Bluey!

LUNA
Rainbow!

SCOUT
Cookie!

Link nods seriously.

LINK
Cookie Lincoln has a certain ring to it.

Jo rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

JO
We are absolutely not letting them vote.

LINK
This is market research.

The table dissolves into giggles again.

Jo gathers plates and walks to the sink.
Her smile fades as she turns away.

Water runs.

Link finishes clearing the table, then joins her in the kitchen.

She’s rinsing dishes a little too carefully.

LINK
You okay?

JO
No. I’m not okay.

Still not looking at him.
She keeps her eyes on the sink.

JO (CONT’D)
They’re coming soon.
And we still haven’t agreed on anything.

LINK
We will.

She shuts off the water. The sudden quiet is heavier than the noise was.

JO
You say that like we have all the time in the world.

LINK
It’s just—
We don’t need to rush it.

JO
I’m not rushing it.
I just… don’t want to be standing there holding them and still arguing.

That lands.

He steps closer.

LINK
We’re not arguing.

JO
We kind of are.
And they’re not even here yet.

A beat.

He exhales slowly.

LINK
I’m not trying to fight you.

JO
I know.
But you shoot down every name I suggest.

There it is.

LINK
I’m not—
And you shoot down mine.

JO
Melody? Really?

LINK
Okay, maybe not Melody.

Jo exhales.

A flicker of humor, but it doesn’t fully break the tension.

He softens.

LINK
Hey. Come here.

He closes the distance gently.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m on your side.
I just want it to feel right for both of us.

JO
And what if it never does for you?

The fear comes out sharper than she means it to — her emotions closer to the surface these days, hormones quietly turning the volume up on everything.

Silence.

He studies her profile.

LINK
Maybe I just need a minute to catch up.

He steps even closer behind her. Close enough that she can feel his presence before he touches her.

He slides his free hand gently along her side — slower this time, less playful, more careful.

LINK
Hey.

He rests his forehead lightly against the back of her head.

LINK (CONT’D)
We’ll figure it out.

She exhales. The tension loosens a little, but doesn’t fully disappear.

From the other room—

LUNA
Can we name them Rainbow and Elsa?!

LINK
Still under review!

Jo leans back into him for just a moment.

She finally smiles again.

But there’s a weight behind it now.

Unresolved.

FADE OUT.

22.4.9 – Talking About the Names – On the Couch

INT. JO AND LINK'S APARTMENT – LIVING ROOM – EVENING

The living room is dim, lit only by the TV and a small lamp in the corner.

A half-empty bowl of popcorn sits on the coffee table. The house is finally quiet.

Jo is curled under a blanket, tucked against Link’s side. Her head rests on his chest. His good arm is wrapped around her shoulders; the other rests awkwardly in its sling. He rubs slow, absent-minded circles over her shoulder.

The movie plays in the background — something neither of them is fully watching.

Jo tilts her head slightly.

JO
What about Peyton?

He doesn’t respond at first, eyes still on the screen.

LINK
Hmm?

JO
What about Peyton?

He looks down at her.

LINK
Wait. Who’s that?
Which character?

She reaches for the remote and pauses the movie.

JO
Not in the movie.
What do you think of the name Peyton?

He shifts carefully so he can see her face better.

LINK
Where did that come from?

JO
I had a patient last week.
Her baby was seven weeks early.

A beat.

JO (CONT’D)
So tiny. But stubborn.

Another beat.

JO (CONT’D)
Already a fighter.

He watches her more closely now.

JO (CONT’D)
Her name was Peyton.

She adjusts under the blanket, fingers playing with the edge of it.

JO (CONT’D)
I don’t know.
I just like the name.

A beat.

JO (CONT’D)
(thinking)
It’s soft. But strong.
It sounds… steady.

She meets his eyes.

JO (CONT’D)
And it would sound good with Luna and Scout.

The room goes quieter now.

He studies her — she’s not brainstorming. She’s anchoring.

LINK
I just… want something that feels more personal.

JO
I suggested Hattie. That’s personal. And you brushed it off.

LINK
I didn’t brush it off.

He tightens his arm around her slightly, protective instinct kicking in.

JO
I’m always the one suggesting.
You’re always the one weighing in.

He winces slightly at that. Not defensive, just aware.

LINK
I’m not trying to decide.
I’m trying to land.

A beat.

He says it softly, testing it in the room:

LINK (CONT’D)
Hattie and Peyton.

He lets the words sit in the air.

Jo watches his face carefully.

JO
It sounds good together.

He doesn’t argue.

LINK
Maybe.

He presses a small kiss into her hair.

LINK (CONT’D)
Let me sit with it.
And let me give other ideas.

Jo’s fingers tighten in the blanket.

JO
Don’t think too much, then.

The shift is subtle — but real.

JO (CONT’D)
I’m carrying twins, Link.
Things can change overnight.

The air shifts.

He sits up slightly.

LINK
You’re okay though, right?

JO
Right now? Yeah.

A beat.

JO (CONT’D)
But I don’t know how I’m supposed to carry them another six weeks.

That lands heavier now.

He looks at her — not teasing, not calming. Assessing.

LINK
You need to slow down.
No more pushing yourself.

JO
I know.

A quiet settles between them.

She relaxes back into him, listening to his heartbeat.

LINK
Can we finish the movie now?

JO
I might fall asleep.

LINK
(soft)
That’s allowed.

He presses a soft kiss on her head.

He unpauses it.

The movie resumes, but neither of them really hears it.

FADE OUT.

22.4.10 – Talking About the Names – In The Car

INT. JO AND LINK’S CAR — LATE AFTERNOON

The car hums steadily down a quiet road.

They’re driving home from the park.

Golden light spills through the windshield, warm and low.

In the back seat, Luna and Scout are buckled in, listening to their story box narrating something dramatic about a knight and a dragon.

A soft folk song plays underneath the muffled narration.

Jo drives, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting lightly over her belly.
Link sits in the passenger seat, his arm still in its sling.

SCOUT
(shouting suddenly)
Noooo! The dragon is nice!

LUNA
He’s not nice, Scout!

LINK
(to the back)
Plot twist: dragons have layers.

Jo smiles.
A long beat.

Then—

LINK
Peyton Lincoln.

Jo turns her head slowly.

JO
What?

LINK
Just testing it.

He keeps his eyes on the road.

LINK (CONT’D)
That’s a lot of “on.”

JO
Who said we were dropping Wilson?

LINK
Peyton Wilson Lincoln?

He winces playfully.

LINK (CONT’D)
That’s… still a lot of “on.”

She laughs despite herself.

JO
You’re impossible.

He shrugs lightly.

JO (CONT’D)
But I see it’s growing on you.

LINK
I haven’t wrapped my head around it yet.

Jo glances at him.

JO
I’m still waiting on your better suggestions.

A turn signal clicks softly.

LINK
I don’t have anything better… yet.

A glance in her direction.

LINK (CONT’D)
Olivia was solid. But you vetoed it.

JO
Because she’ll have three in her class.

LINK
Fair.

A beat.

LINK
(teasing)
Still a hard no on Melody?

She turns slowly to look at him.

JO
You cannot be serious.

LINK
I’m committed to the bit.

She shakes her head, smiling — then it fades slightly.

A beat.

LINK
Even if we agree on two names… how are we going to decide which twin is which?

In the back seat—

SCOUT
(shouting suddenly)
The dragon wins!

They both glance in the rearview mirror and smile.

JO
I don’t want it to be random.
Like first one out gets this and the other gets that.

She rubs her belly gently.

JO (CONT’D)
I want to look at them and just… know.

He glances at her now. Really looks at her.

The car is quiet except for the road and faint cartoon voices.

LINK
You think you will?

JO
I don’t know.

A beat.

JO (CON’TD)
But I want that moment.

Another quiet beat.

He nods slightly.

Link reaches over and rests his hand on her knee gently.

LINK
Okay.

Not joking. Not debating.
Just okay.

The car turns into the driveway.

Golden light lingers.
The names hang between them.

Unsure.

Unassigned.

Waiting.

FADE OUT.

↑ Back to timeline ↑

Episode 22×05 — “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child” (Canon)

Jo starts the day exhausted, having fallen asleep on a gurney in the hallway before Iris pulls her up for yet another patient. She pushes through her rounds half-awake until she crosses paths with Link. They slip easily into a domestic rhythm, teasing each other about Scout and Luna exhausting Link’s parents. A lighthearted exchange about baptism ends up revealing a deeper disagreement neither of them fully recognizes yet: Jo eager to baptize the babies at eight weeks, Link wanting to wait until they are eighteen—old enough to make their own decision.

Their moment is interrupted when Iris asks Jo to take a new admission. Jo assures Link she won’t be long and asks him to work in the lounge.

Jo’s day quickly escalates. Her new patient, Amy Ramsey, arrives in labor furious, grieving, and determined to have an unmedicated vaginal birth. Jo discovers the baby is breech and suggests an external cephalic version, which is most effective with an epidural. Amy refuses medication—and a C-section—outright. Jo maintains her professionalism, but Amy resists every option until she finally reveals that her husband died three months earlier. Only then does Jo understand the depth of her fear and rigidity.

Meanwhile, Link drafts a list of reasons baptizing their babies makes no sense. When Jo briefly checks in between contractions, they revisit their disagreement. Link is deeply skeptical and wants to understand, as he has never seen her go to church—nor did he ever suspect she was religious. Jo pushes back: she never said she didn’t believe in anything. Talking with his mother reminded her of a sense of community she once witnessed when she used to go to the church for free meals. For Link, baptism represents indoctrination into a faith he doesn’t believe in; for Jo, it represents belonging and hope. The argument is left unfinished as Jo is called back to her patient.

Jo’s second attempt to turn the baby is excruciating. Amy is terrified and fights her at every step. When the fetal heart rate drops, Jo tries again to talk her through it. To ground her, Jo asks about Amy’s husband, Kevin. Amy describes him through raw grief. Jo tells her that the baby carries part of him too—and that she wants to help her meet her daughter. Amy still insists she can’t do it, until Jo gently guides her through breathing, even sharing a brief, imperfect laugh when Amy admits the technique isn’t helping much. That small connection opens the door. Jo succeeds in turning the baby.

Later, Jo finds Link asleep on the couch. She wakes him gently and tells him she delivered a healthy baby girl.

They return to the baptism conversation with more honesty. Link finally explains the root of his resistance: as a child with cancer, religious groups visited the ward claiming God was watching over them. He couldn’t reconcile that with the suffering around him.

Decades later, he still struggles with the idea of a benevolent God in an unjust world. “Where is God?” he asks. Jo admits she prayed after the explosion—not because she’s certain of anything, but because she was terrified and praying was the only thing she could do. It gave her comfort.

The moment remains quiet, intimate, unresolved. They agree to table the conversation, as they’re both exhausted.

As they head toward the parking lot, Jo suddenly stops. Her expression shifts. She tells Link she thinks her water just broke. They turn back toward the hospital together—everything unfinished, but suddenly urgent.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.5

22.5.1 – Jo is Admitted

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – EMERGENCY BAY – MORNING

Jo and Link move quickly through the ER doors. 

He has one arm firmly around her waist, guiding her more than supporting her.

Jo looks pale, worried — even though she tries to stay composed.

Link is not.
He’s already scanning monitors, tracking staff, doing math in his head he can’t slow down.

A nurse approaches.

NURSE
I saw you leave. 
What’s happening?

LINK
Her water broke.
Twin pregnancy.
Cerclage in place.

JO
It felt more like a leak.
Not a full rupture.

The nurse nods, reaching for a wheelchair.

NURSE
Okay, let’s get you—

LINK
No.

He gently but firmly guides Jo toward a bed instead.

LINK (CONT’D)
She needs to lie down.

Jo exhales.

JO
I can sit down. It was just a small—

LINK
—I know.
But still.

He’s already pulling the curtain, helping her sit, then lie back.

The nurse watches, clocking the urgency.

LINK
Page OB now.

NURSE
Right away, Dr. Lincoln.

She moves fast.
Jo looks at him now — really looks.

JO
You’re spiraling.

Link freezes for half a second.

LINK
I’m not.

She reaches for his hand, grounding him.

JO
You’re making it harder for me to stay calm.

A breath.

She squeezes his fingers.

JO (CONT’D)
Right now…
I need you steady.
Or we’ll both panic and I can’t have that.

That lands.
Link nods once, swallowing hard.

LINK
Okay. Okay.
I am sorry.

He forces himself to sit, presses a kiss to her hand.
Still vibrating with fear.

Jo lies back against the pillows.
She stares at the ceiling — heart racing, fear curling tight in her chest.
But she keeps her voice calm.
Because she’s already decided:
If one of them panics, it can’t be her.

FADE OUT.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OB UNIT – MORNING (2 HOURS LATER)

The room is softly lit. Monitors hum at a steady, reassuring rhythm.

Jo lies in the hospital bed, propped slightly on pillows.

An IV is already in place.

Link sits in the chair beside her bed, leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

He hasn’t taken his jacket off.
He looks alert, focused — adrenaline doing all the work exhaustion should be doing.

Nurse Iris stands at the foot of the bed, reviewing Jo’s chart on her tablet.

The ultrasound gel has been wiped away.

IRIS
Okay. I’ve looked at everything.
For now — the twins look good.
Heart tones are strong.
Cerclage is holding.

JO
No signs of infection?

IRIS
No. 

Link exhales, the breath he’s been holding finally escaping.

LINK
So… we’re okay?

IRIS
Right now?
Yes.

She meets his eyes — calm, honest.

IRIS (CONT’D)
But given everything — the leak, the high-risk pregnancy — 
We’re keeping Jo for observation. 

Link nods. Logical. Reasonable.

Still — his jaw tightens.

LINK
How long?

Iris readjusts the fetal monitors around Jo’s belly, securing them back into place.

IRIS
We’ll reassess as we go.
Right now, the goal is stability.

Jo closes her eyes for a second — not scared. Just tired.

JO
Okay.

Iris gives them a reassuring smile.

IRIS
I’ll check back in a bit.

She exits.

Silence settles back into the room, filled only by the steady beeping of monitors.

Link turns to Jo immediately.

LINK
You okay?

JO
(smiles faintly)
I’m just… really tired.

That lands heavier than fear ever could.
Link reaches for her hand, squeezing it gently.

LINK
I shouldn’t have let you work that much.
Especially not night shifts.

JO
Hey.
Don’t.

She opens her eyes, steadying him.

JO (CONT’D)
This isn’t on you.

A beat.

Jo shifts slightly, uncomfortable, then exhales.

JO (CONT’D)
Could you go home?
Get me my stuff — some clothes, my charger.
Maybe the pregnancy pillow,
if you can wrestle it into the car.

Link doesn’t answer.
He looks at the bed.
The monitors.
Her.

LINK
I don’t want to leave you.

There it is. Simple. Honest.
Jo softens.

JO
I know.

She squeezes his hand back.

JO (CONT’D)
But the babies are fine.
I’m fine.
And I’m going to sleep the second you walk out that door.

She tries for a smile.

JO (CONT’D)
You’ll be gone, what — 2 hours?

Link hesitates.

JO (CONT’D)
Go.
Please.

A long beat.

Finally, Link nods — once.

LINK
Okay.

He leans in, pressing a careful kiss to her head.

LINK (CONT’D)
Call me if anything feels even a little off.

JO
I will.

He straightens, forcing himself to step back.

LINK
I’ll be right back.

JO
I know.

LINK
I love you.

JO
I love you.
(reassuring)
Now go.
So I can sleep.

Link hesitates one last second — then leaves.

FADE OUT.

22.5.2 — Link Goes Home

INT. JO AND LINK’S APARTMENT – LATE MORNING

The apartment is quiet in a way it usually isn’t.
It’s the weekend.

Luna and Scout sit on the floor, coloring.

Maureen is with them, patient, attentive.

Eric stands by the window, phone in hand, pretending not to watch the door.

The lock turns.

Link steps inside.

Maureen looks up immediately — reads his face in half a second.

MAUREEN
Hey.

Link nods, drops his keys into the bowl.
He doesn’t take his jacket off.

LUNA & SCOUT
Daddy!

LINK
Hi, kiddos.

Maureen crosses the room, lowering her voice instinctively.

MAUREEN
How is she?

LINK
Stable.
They’re keeping her for observation.

Not dramatic.
Just fact.

A pause.

MAUREEN
And the babies?

LINK
Everything's okay.
For now.

That’s all he can manage.

Luna looks up from her drawing.

LUNA
Where’s Mommy?

Link crouches in front of her, slow, careful.

LINK
Mommy’s at the hospital.
She’s really tired, so the doctors want her to rest.

SCOUT
Is she sick?

A fraction of hesitation.

LINK
No.
Just tired.
She is sleeping right now.

Scout accepts that. Goes back to coloring.

Luna watches him a beat longer.

LUNA
Can we call her?

Link swallows.

LINK
Soon.

Maureen clocks the tension — the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands won’t quite settle.

MAUREEN
Why don’t you sit for a second?

LINK
I need to bring her some things.

He moves through the apartment, purposeful — collecting Jo’s charger, a sweatshirt — then heads upstairs.

INT. BEDROOM – CONTINUOUS

Link opens a drawer and packs Jo’s clothes.
Then adds his own things: a t-shirt, fresh underwear, his phone charger.
He grabs her toiletry bag from the bathroom, places it on top.

Maureen follows, quiet.

LINK
I’ll stay there tonight. 
Can you take care of the kids?

MAUREEN
Of course.
That’s not even a question. 

Link lets out a short breath.

LINK
I am scared, Mom.

The words are low. Contained.

Maureen steps closer, grounding without touching.

MAUREEN
I know you are.

A beat.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
But you said everything looks okay for now.

Link nods.

LINK
For now. Yeah.
But she’s only seven months along.

Maureen nods — no argument.

MAUREEN
Go.
We’ve got them.

Link looks at her.

LINK
Thank you. 

It’s not gratitude.
It’s relief mixed with fear.

INT. LIVING ROOM – MOMENTS LATER

Link kneels in front of Luna and Scout again.

LINK
I’m going back to the hospital for a bit, okay?

LUNA
Are you sleeping there?

LINK
Yeah.

SCOUT
Like when you were hurt?

The question lands harder than intended.

LINK
Not like a patient.
I’m just staying with Jo.

Link offers a smile he hopes is convincing.

He kisses both of them — longer than usual.
Stands.

At the door, Maureen hands him the bag.

Their eyes meet.

MAUREEN
Call if anything changes.

LINK
I will.

He opens the door — pauses.
Looks back at the room.

The kids.
His parents.
The life that’s holding while he’s gone.
Then he leaves.

EXT. APARTMENT HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

Link steps into the hallway, phone already in his hand.
No messages.
He exhales — slow, controlled.
Pockets the phone.
Flags a taxi.
Heads back toward the hospital.

FADE OUT.

22.5.3 – Link Comes Back to Jo’s Bedside

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OB UNIT – AFTERNOON

The room is dim now.
Lights lowered. Machines reduced to a steady, almost soothing hum.

Jo sleeps.
Her breathing is slow, even — the kind of sleep that comes when the body finally lets go.

The door opens softly.

Link steps inside.
He pauses just inside the room, taking her in — the monitors, the IV, the way one hand rests on her belly without thinking.

He exhales.
Moves closer.
He sets the bag down quietly. Pulls a chair closer to the bed. Sits.

Gently, carefully, he takes her hand in his good one and presses a kiss — a reflex, reverent.

He stays there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then exhaustion wins.

He leans back in the chair, still holding her hand.
His head tips forward slightly.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OB UNIT – AN HOUR LATER

Jo stirs.
Not alarmed — just surfacing.
Her fingers move.

Link wakes instantly.
Too fast. Like he never fully let go.

LINK
Hey.

His voice is soft, thick with sleep.

JO
(smiling faintly)
You made it back already.

LINK
Yeah.
You were sleeping really deeply.

He blinks, orienting himself — then squeezes her hand.

LINK (CONT’D)
I brought your stuff.

She glances toward the bag.

JO
Thanks.

LINK
I forgot the pillow, I'm sorry. 

She barely opens her eyes.

JO
It’s okay.
Next time you go home.

A beat.

She studies his face.

JO
Did you sleep?

LINK
A little.

Not a lie. Not the truth.

She squeezes his hand gently.

She shifts slightly, wincing just a touch.

Link leans forward immediately.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey—
You okay?

JO
Yeah.
Just uncomfortable.

She exhales, settles.

JO
How are the kids?
You didn’t tell them right?

LINK
I told them you needed rest.

JO
Okay.
I don’t want them to worry.
They’ve been through enough already.

LINK
They’re okay.

A beat.

She looks at him — sees the decision, not the fear.

JO
You don’t have to stay here all night.

LINK
I’m not going anywhere.

Not dramatic.
Not brave.
Just fact.

Her eyes soften.

JO
Okay.

Jo watches him for a moment — like she’s memorizing the fact that he’s here.
Then she exhales.

Her grip on his hand loosens — not letting go, just easing.

Her eyes close again.
Not asleep.
Just resting.

Link adjusts in the chair, careful not to move her hand.

He pulls the bag closer with his foot.
Settles.

The monitors continue their steady rhythm.

Link stays.

FADE OUT.

↑ Back to timeline ↑

Episode 22×06 — “When I Crash” (Canon)

Jo is in the OB unit, where Iris examines her as Link stays glued at her side. The twins appear stable, the cerclage is intact, and there are no signs of infection. Iris says that, with some luck, Jo may be able to carry the pregnancy further. Jo tries to stay hopeful but admits she’s short of breath and asks for cardiology to be paged. Link says he’ll make the call, doing his best to keep his panic contained.

Shortly after, Winston and Ben arrive to evaluate Jo. Jo is irritated with Link for calling the head of cardiothoracic, feeling he overreacted. Winston orders an EKG, explaining that cardiac symptoms are often mistaken for normal pregnancy discomfort. Jo tries to remain calm for Link’s sake, reassuring him that everything is going to be okay.

When Ben returns to perform the EKG, Jo sends Link to the gift shop to get socks, deliberately keeping him out of the room during the exam. Ben remarks on how calm she seems. Jo confides that she’s terrified. She’s seen partners fall apart at the bedside too many times and doesn’t want to scare Link before there are answers. Ben reassures her that she’s in good hands.

Link returns from the gift shop just as Winston delivers the diagnosis. The ground drops out beneath them: Jo has developed peripartum cardiomyopathy. Her heart is weakening and enlarging, and the cause remains unclear. Winston explains they’ll start with medication, but if that doesn’t work, the remaining options are an Impella pump or early delivery. Jo chooses to try the medication first and, if that fails, prefers the pump — the babies need as much time as they can get. Link listens in stunned silence, overwhelmed but steady, trying to support Jo as she absorbs the news.

Afterward, Link follows Winston and Ben into the hallway, needing clarity on how serious this is. Winston doesn’t soften the truth: Jo’s heart is failing, but they’re taking it one step at a time. He emphasizes that Link must stay calm, as Jo’s anxiety could worsen her condition.

Later, back in Jo’s room, her condition rapidly deteriorates. Her oxygen levels drop, her blood pressure falls, and her heart’s contractility continues to weaken. Winston decides they can’t wait. The Impella must be placed immediately, while Jo is still stable enough for the procedure. Link rushes in as Jo finally breaks, overwhelmed by the reality of what’s happening. He goes straight to her, reassuring her that she’s not alone, that he loves her, that they’ll get through this.

In the cath lab, Winston and Ben prepare to place the pump. Before they can begin, fetal heart tones suddenly disappear for both twins. Iris asks whether Jo is stable enough for an emergency C-section. With OB tied up in multiple emergencies elsewhere in the hospital, Iris tells Winston there’s no more time. The babies have to be delivered now.

Winston hasn’t performed a C-section since medical school. Iris places the scalpel in his hand and tells him he can do this. Winston looks at Jo, asks her to stay with him, and makes the incision as the episode ends.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.6 (part 1)

22.6.1 – After the Gurney Disappears

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – CORRIDOR – DAY

The gurney turns the corner and disappears from view.

Link stops in the middle of the corridor.
Around him, the hospital keeps moving.
A nurse rushes past.
Shoes squeak against the floor.

Life continues at a pace he can’t follow.

Link rubs a hand over his face, slow, deliberate — trying to breathe.

He takes a few unsteady steps in a small circle — like movement might help — but it doesn’t.

He presses his palms to his thighs, bends forward, then sinks down against the wall.

Crouched.
Head bowed.
Breathing shallow, uneven.

He looks stunned, like he’s just been punched.

He drags a hand down his face, presses his fingers into his eyes, trying to ground himself.

Bailey comes fast down the corridor, headed toward Jo’s room.

She slows when she sees him.
One look is enough.

She stops in front of him.

BAILEY
(steady, low)
Lincoln.

Link looks up. His eyes are red already — not crying yet, just raw.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
(clearly concerned, holding it together)
What happened?

LINK
(words spilling out)
Her EF dropped.
They took her to the cath lab.
They’re placing a pump.

Bailey absorbs it. Straightens — grounding herself so he doesn’t have to.

BAILEY
(steadying herself)
 Okay.
 Okay.

She places a hand on his shoulder — firm, anchoring.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
They know what they’re doing.

Link shakes his head slightly, like the words can’t find a place to land.

A beat.

LINK
(helpless, honest)
I don’t know what to do.

Quiet. Honest. Raw. 

Bailey doesn’t contradict him.
She glances around — the corridor, the chaos, the movement — then back to him.

BAILEY
Then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.

A beat.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
(calm, grounding)
 We’re going to go somewhere they know where to find you.
 And we’re going to wait there.

LINK
I can’t leave here.

BAILEY
Right now, you’re not the doctor.

She offers her hand, helping him stand.

She doesn’t ask.
She redirects.

Link hesitates — totally disoriented — then nods.

Bailey guides him down the corridor, steady at his side, as he carries a weight so heavy he can barely walk.

FADE OUT.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – WAITING ROOM – MOMENTS LATER

The waiting room is too quiet.

Link hovers near a chair, doesn’t sit right away. His hands flex, restless.

His phone vibrates.
He freezes.
Looks down.

ON SCREEN: MOM
We’ve found Luna’s puppy.
It was under the couch. 

Another text:
Any updates? 
Scout and Luna want to FaceTime with Jo.
When can we call without bothering her?

The outside world pressing in at the worst possible moment.

Link stares at the message.

He can’t answer.

He locks the phone and leaves it unread.

LINK
(quiet, barely holding it together)
How will they know I’m here?

BAILEY
I’ll take care of it.

She’s already pulling out her phone.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
They’ll update you as soon as they can.

Link nods, but his breath catches.

LINK
(head down, raw)
I just feel so helpless.

Bailey looks at him — really looks.

BAILEY
There’s nothing else we can do right now.

A beat.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Jo’s one of the toughest people I know.
And she’s with people who won’t stop fighting for her.
 
That’s when Link finally sits.

He drops into the chair, elbows on his knees, head falling into his hands.

He stops moving.

Bailey sits beside him — close enough to matter, far enough to let him breathe.

She doesn’t say anything else.
She just stays. 
For now.
While she can.

FADE OUT.

Episode 22×07 — “Skyfall” (Canon)

Montage

Ndugu performs the emergency C-section on Jo as Link waits in the hallway, overwhelmed and desperate for updates.

The first baby is delivered just as the OB team rushes in and takes over the procedure. Moments later, the second baby is born. Almost immediately after the delivery, Jo codes.

Ben rushes in to begin CPR as the babies are taken away to the NICU. Working together, Ben and Winston are able to place a heart pump. Jo’s condition stabilizes, but she remains unconscious.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.6 (part 2)

22.6.2 – Hour 1 – Someone Always Stays

Quiet montage

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – WAITING ROOM – LATER

Link sits in the same chair.
Unmoving.

The room looks the same — except time has passed.

— Teddy appears in the doorway. She spots Link, pauses, then walks over and sits beside him.
No words. 
A reassuring hand on his back. 

Link doesn’t look up.

A beat.

— Teddy’s phone vibrates. She checks it, hesitates, then gently squeezes Link’s arm.
She leaves.

— Link is alone again.
Only for a moment.

— Owen steps in. He stops in front of Link, studies him for a beat.
He rests a hand on Link’s shoulder — brief, grounding.
 
Link barely looks up, his eyes red.
 
Then Owen is gone.

The chair beside Link is empty again.

— Bailey returns. She sits next to him.
This time, she stays.

Link exhales — barely noticeable.
He doesn’t move.

— Webber rushes in, scanning the waiting room.
He spots Bailey.

Their eyes meet.
Concern. Understanding.

Bailey gives a small nod.

Webber walks slowly over to Link, places a steady arm on his shoulder, then sits beside him.

Link remains bent forward, head in his hands.
Held on both sides now.

He stays exactly where he is.
So do they.

END MONTAGE.

22.6.3 – Hour 2 – The Information Avalance

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – WAITING ROOM – LATER

Link sits where we left him.

Bailey is beside him. Present. Alert.

Dr. Kasliwal, pediatric attending, approaches with a NICU nurse.
They slow when they see Link — folded in on himself, barely upright, like gravity has increased around him.

Bailey stands immediately. Instinct.
She understands the second she sees them.

BAILEY
This is Dr. Lincoln.

Dr. Kasliwal nods, gentle but efficient.

DR. KASLIWAL
Dr. Lincoln. I’m from Pediatrics.
I wanted to update you.

Link looks up too fast. Pushes himself to his feet, unsteady — like standing might pull the answers closer.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Your twins were delivered.

The words don’t land.

Link stares at her. 
Too still.
Like his body forgot how to react.

LINK
(delayed, disoriented)
They’re…?

DR. KASLIWAL
They were delivered just in time.

The words hit him hard — not relief.
Impact.

Link swallows, throat tight.

LINK
(too fast, almost afraid of the answer)
Are they okay?

DR. KASLIWAL
They were intubated.
They’re stable for now.
They’re in the NICU.

Stable.
For now.

Link nods automatically, like he understands the language — but his breathing has gone shallow, uneven.
Too much information. Too fast.

LINK
(overwhelmed, grasping)
Okay.

A beat.

And then — like a delayed aftershock —

LINK (CONT’D)
What about my wife?

Dr. Kasliwal hesitates. 
Just a second.

It’s enough. 

Link sees it immediately.

LINK (CONT’D)
(quiet, tight)
Tell me how my wife is. 

DR. KASLIWAL
Your wife went into cardiac arrest.

Silence.

The words feel unreal. Like it makes no sense at all. 

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
They were able to resuscitate her and place the pump.
They’re still with her now.

A pause.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She’s holding on. 

Link’s shoulders drop.
Not relief.
Just weight.

His body reacts before his mind can decide how.
Relief and terror hit him at the same time.
His body doesn’t know which one to answer.

LINK
(desperate)
I need to see her. 

DR. KASLIWAL
Not yet. She’s still in the OR.
They’ll come update you as soon as they can.

The room seems to tilt slightly.

Bailey steps closer. Not touching.
Just anchoring the space.
Helping him process what his next move should be. 

She steps in.

BAILEY
Can he see his daughters?

Dr. Kasliwal nods.

DR. KASLIWAL
Of course.
That’s what I came for.

The words hang there.
An opening
A next step.

Link doesn’t move.

He looks down at the floor, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

LINK
(quiet, fractured)
I don’t know—

He stops, unsettled by his own voice.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re going to come for me.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I can’t leave.
Not before knowing she’s okay.

This isn’t reluctance.
This is paralysis.

Bailey holds his gaze now.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Jo would want you to see them.

That lands.

Not choice.
Sequence.

LINK
If I go…
If something happens—

He can’t finish.
The thought is too big. Too terrifying.

BAILEY
I’ll come get you.

Not a promise of safety.
A promise of presence.

Link closes his eyes.
Opens them again.

Red. Glassy.
Like something inside him has switched to autopilot.

LINK
…Okay.

Acceptance.

Bailey nods once — like she’s been waiting for him to get there.

BAILEY
I’ll stay here.
I won’t leave.

Link finally looks at her.

LINK
(raw)
Thank you.

Barely audible.

Dr. Kasliwal gestures toward the hallway.

DR. KASLIWAL
We’ll take you now.

Link takes a step.

Stops.

Turns back to Bailey.

LINK
(under his breath)
Call me the minute she’s out.

Bailey nods. Soft. Certain.

They move.

FADE OUT.

22.6.4 – Hour 3 – Meeting the Twins

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – NICU – DAY

The NICU doors slide open.

Sound hits first.
Monitors. Ventilators. Rhythmic beeping. Controlled urgency.

Link steps inside in a pink isolation gown, his sling wrapped over it, blue gloves pulled tight over his hands.

He looks immediately smaller somehow.
Overwhelmed by the space.
By the fragility.

The nurse leads him forward.

They stop.

Two incubators.

So small.
Too small.

Link doesn’t move.

He stares — frozen — like stepping closer might make this real in a way he’s not ready for.

The nurse waits. Doesn’t rush him.

Finally, Link takes a step.
Then another.

He leans in.

His breath catches hard.
His eyes fill instantly.

He presses his lips together, trying to stop it — failing.

These are his daughters.

So tiny.
Skin almost translucent.
Wires everywhere.
Machines breathing for them.

His hand lifts — hovers — unsure.

Like he’s afraid of claiming them.

He swallows. Tries to speak.

Nothing comes out.

His mouth opens.
Closes again.

He nods once to himself, like he needs to convince his body this is happening.

Tears spill silently, tracking down the side of his nose.

The nurse moves closer and gently guides him.

NICU NURSE
(soft)
You can touch them here.

She indicates a small opening.

Link hesitates — terrified of doing something wrong.

Then he slowly slides two fingers inside the first incubator.

They barely fit.

The moment his skin meets hers —

Her tiny fingers curl, almost imperceptibly, around his.

He breaks.

A sharp, silent inhale.
Tears spill freely now. No stopping them.

He bows his head, forehead nearly touching the plastic.

A long beat.

He wipes his face, breathing hard, trying to pull himself together.

He tries again.

LINK
(breaking)
Hi…

Another breath. Shaky.

LINK (CONT’D)
It’s Daddy.

The word cracks him open completely.

The feeling comes fast — overwhelming, unasked for — 
love, sudden and absolute, already there before he can stop it.

He moves to the second incubator.

This one is quieter.
Still.

Link’s breath stutters — just for a second — before he steadies himself.

He slides his fingers inside.

No reaction.

He doesn’t pull away.

Just stays.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re okay.
I’ve got you.

His voice wavers.

He swallows. Grounds himself.

LINK (CONT’D)
Mommy’s going to be here soon.

He says it like a promise.
Like he needs them to believe it.
Like he needs to believe it.

A wet smile breaks through his tears.

LINK (CONT’D)
You are going to have the most amazing mom. 

Another beat.

He stays there — hand still inside the incubator.
Unmoving.

Breathing finally slows.

For the first time since the gurney turned the corner, Link is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

A long beat. 

A presence behind him.

Dr. Kasliwal has arrived quietly.

DR. KASLIWAL
(gentle)
They’re already showing how strong they are.

Link doesn’t look away.

LINK
(soft, afraid)
They’re so tiny.

DR. KASLIWAL
They are.
And they are fighters.
Tiny little fighters. 

A beat. 

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Have you and your wife picked names yet?

The question lands like a bruise.

Link freezes.

This moment was supposed to be theirs.

LINK
I—

He can’t finish.

A breath.

LINK (CONT’D)
I can’t name them without her.

Dr. Kasliwal nods immediately. No hesitation.

DR. KASLIWAL
Of course.

A gentle solution.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
For now, we’ll call them Baby A and Baby B.

Link looks back at them.

Baby A.
Baby B.

Temporary.
Held.

LINK
(quiet)
They are supposed to have names.

Dr. Kasliwal lets the silence sit.

DR. KASLIWAL
Names can wait.

A beat.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Right now, they just need you.

That lands.
Link nods — barely.

He looks at his daughters with something fierce and tender all at once.

He stays.

Just stays.

Loving them already.

FADE OUT.

22.6.5 – Hour 5 – The Update

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – NICU  - LATER

Link stands between the two incubators, exactly where we left him.
His good hand is threaded through the small opening, holding Baby B’s tiny fingers.

He hasn’t moved in a while.

A nurse approaches quietly, careful not to startle him.

NURSE
Dr. Lincoln?
Dr. Ndugu and Dr. Warren are outside.
They have an update on your wife.

Link nods once. Alert.
He doesn’t trust his voice.

He withdraws his hand slowly, like breaking contact takes effort.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – NICU THRESHOLD – CONTINUOUS

Link slips the blue gloves off, dropping them into the bin without looking.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Inside the NICU, his daughters breathe with the help of machines.
Out here, the air feels heavier. Less forgiving.

He exhales, like he’s leaving something behind.
Not by choice. By necessity.

He steps away from the doors.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – CONTINUOUS

Bailey is there.
Not hovering.
Not pacing.
Just present — like she never left.

Ben Warren and Winston Ndugu approach him together.

No rush.
No white-coat urgency.

This isn’t an emergency update.
This is a truth moment.

NDUGU
Link.

Link straightens instinctively — bracing for impact.

A beat.

LINK
She coded.

Ben nods. No hedging.

BEN
Her heart stopped.
But we got her back.

The words land fully now.
Not procedural.
Personal.

NDUGU
The pump is doing what it’s supposed to do.
It’s supporting her heart — taking some of the load off.

Link listens. Focused. Clinging to specifics.

NDUGU
But—

There it is.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
 —Her ejection fraction hasn’t improved yet.

Silence.

Link absorbs it slowly — heavier than everything else.

LINK
So… what does that mean?

Ndugu chooses his words carefully.

NDUGU
It means her heart hasn’t recovered on its own yet.
Right now, we’re watching.
Waiting to see if it does.

LINK
And if it doesn’t?

The question is quiet.
But it’s there.

Ndugu doesn’t rush to answer.

NDUGU
Then we talk about next steps.
But we’re not there yet.

That’s not reassurance.
That’s honesty.

Link nods once.

LINK
Is she… awake?

Ben answers this time.

BEN
No.
They’ve lightened the sedation — but she hasn’t woken up yet.

Another layer settles in.

Bailey steps closer — steady, unmistakable.

BAILEY
She’s stable.
That matters.

Link exhales — shaky.

LINK
(jaw tightening, grip firm on the sling)
Can I see her?

Ndugu looks at Ben. Then nods.

NDUGU
Yes.
She’s been moved to the ICU.

That’s the moment.
Not relief.
Not hope.
Permission.

Link swallows hard.

LINK
Okay.

He doesn’t move yet.

He looks at Bailey.

LINK (CONT’D)
I can’t be in two places.

It’s not a complaint.
It’s a realization.

Bailey doesn’t hesitate.

BAILEY
You don’t have to be.

She gestures gently back toward the NICU.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I’ll stay with the girls.
You go see your wife.

Link’s eyes flicker — gratitude, fear, everything tangled.

LINK
Thank you.

Ben adds quietly:

BEN
We’ve got you.

Link nods. That’s all he has left.

Ndugu gestures down the hall.

NDUGU
I’ll walk you to her room.

Link takes one last look toward the NICU doors.

Then turns.

He follows Ndugu down the corridor.

Bailey stays.
So does Ben.

The support system doesn’t collapse when he leaves.
It holds. 

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – NICU CORRIDOR – CONTINUOUS

Bailey and Ben stand just outside the NICU, side by side, looking in through the glass at the cribs.

Bailey reaches for Ben’s hand — grounding him as much as herself.

He looks exhausted. Worn down.

BEN
(shaken)
We almost lost her.

Bailey tightens her grip and finally looks at him.

BAILEY
You got her back. 

Ben exhales, the adrenaline wearing off.
 
BEN
Not fully back yet…

A beat.

BEN
I’m going to stay close to her room.
In case anything changes.

Bailey nods.

Ben leans in and kisses her on the cheek — quick, familiar, full of gratitude.

She squeezes his shoulder once.

BAILEY
Okay.

Ben heads off.

Bailey turns back toward the NICU doors.
She enters, gowns herself, and steps closer to the incubators the nurse has just shown her.

Her voice softens.

BAILEY
Hi, little ladies.
I’m Miranda.

A small, steady smile.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I’m a good friend of your mom and dad.
And you should know something—

She leans in, just a little.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
You are very, very loved.

She stays.

FADE OUT.

22.6.6 – Hour 6 – Back to Jo

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL - ICU ROOM – DAY

The door opens softly.

Link steps inside.

The room is dim.

Machines hum. Monitor lights blink steadily.

Jo lies in the bed.
Unconscious. Pale. Still. Breathing through a machine. 

For a moment, Link just stands there.

Seeing her like this — finally — hits him all at once.

His shoulders sag.
His breath catches.

He lowers his head, pressing his lips together, trying — failing — to hold it in.

Tears spill silently.

He takes a step closer.
Another.

He reaches the bed and stops.

Slowly, carefully, he takes her hand.

It’s warm.
That’s what breaks him.

A quiet, broken sound escapes his chest as he bends forward.

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles, over and over — grounding himself in the motion.

Then he lifts his free hand and gently smooths her hair back from her face.

His fingers linger at her temple. Her cheek.

LINK
(whispering, breaking)
Hi, my love.

His voice cracks completely.

He swallows, tries again.

LINK (CONT’D)
I was just with our babies.

A breath.

LINK (CONT’D)
(through tears)
They’re beautiful.

He nods faintly, like saying it out loud makes it real.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
You did it.

A beat.

Tears fall freely now.

He pulls a chair closer and sits, keeping her hand in his.
 
LINK (CONT’D)
They’re so small.
But so strong.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
Just like you.

Another beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I didn’t name them yet. 

A flicker of a smile — small, disbelieving — gone almost as soon as it appears.

LINK (CONT’D)
I know better than that.
(soft, almost fond)
You’d never forgive me.

He exhales — shaky.

LINK (CONT’D)
So… Baby A and Baby B.
(gentler)
For now.

He squeezes her hand gently.

A beat. 

LINK (CONT’D)
They need you.

His voice lowers.

LINK (CONT’D)
I need you.

He leans closer, forehead resting against the mattress near her arm.

His shoulders shake.

LINK (CONT’D)
I can’t do this without you.

The words are barely audible now.

LINK (CONT’D)
Please…

A breath that doesn’t steady.

LINK (CONT’D)
Come back to me.

He stays there, holding her hand.

The machines keep humming.

Jo doesn’t move.

But he doesn’t let go.

FADE OUT.

22.6.7 – Hour 8 – Permission to Leave

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – DAY

The room is dark, hushed.

Link is asleep in the chair, his head resting against the mattress near Jo’s arm.

One hand still wrapped around hers.

He hasn’t let go.

Ben Warren slips in quietly.

He pauses at the doorway — takes in the sight.

Then steps closer.

Ben places a gentle hand on Link’s shoulder.
Not shaking.
Not urgent.
Just enough.

Link wakes instantly.
Too fast.

He’s upright in a second — breath sharp, eyes already searching Jo.

BEN
(soft, steady)
Hey. She’s okay.

Link exhales — shaky. A fraction of relief.

He rubs his face with his hand, trying to orient himself.

BEN (CONT’D)
The NICU’s been trying to reach you.

That lands.

LINK
(already standing)
Is everything okay?

BEN
Yeah.
They just want to update you.

Relief. Brief. 

Link’s gaze drops to his phone on the chair.

He picks it up.

Missed calls.
NICU.
NICU again.

And texts.

ON SCREEN:
MOM: Link, please call us.
MOM: We’re worried.
MOM: Link?

The weight piles on.
Link locks the phone without responding.

LINK
(low, raw)
I can’t leave her.

Ben doesn’t rush him.

LINK (CONT’D)
When they took her in…
(A beat)
I’ve never seen her that scared.
Not ever.

His voice tightens.

LINK (CONT’D)
I can’t get that image out of my head.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
And I wasn’t there.

The guilt is sharp. Specific. Unforgiving.

LINK (CONT’D)
And then her heart stopped.

BEN
You didn’t abandon her.

Link shakes his head.

LINK
It feels like I did.

He looks at Jo — unconscious, fragile.

LINK (CONT’D)
(raw)
I am afraid to leave.

Ben steps closer. Firm now, but gentle.

BEN
Your babies need you too.

Not pressure.
Reality.

Link swallows hard.

BEN (CONT’D)
She’s stable.
And I’ll stay with her.

Link looks at him — searching.

BEN (CONT’D)
I could use the break anyway.
And I’ve got a lot to tell her.

That almost breaks him.

BEN (CONT’D)
I won’t leave her alone.
And if I have to step out, I’ll make sure someone’s here.

A promise that matters.

Link hesitates — torn — then nods once.

Not ready.
But willing.

LINK
…Okay.

He leans down and kisses her forehead — gentle, lingering just a second longer than he should.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ll be right back.
I promise.

He lets go.

That costs him everything.

Ben moves into his place, taking Jo’s hand gently.

As Link reaches the door, Ben speaks — quiet, almost fond.

BEN
Come on, Wilson.

A beat.

BEN (CONT’D)
I promise I won’t hold any gossip from you.

Just enough humor to keep the room human.

Link almost smiles.
Almost.

He leaves.

Ben squeezes Jo’s hand.

BEN (CONT’D)
You hear that?
You’ve got a lot to catch up on.

He settles in.

Stays.

FADE OUT.

22.6.8 – Hour 9 – Back to the NICU

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – NICU – DAY

The NICU doors slide open again.

Link steps inside more slowly this time.

The pink isolation gown hangs loose on him now, the sling still wrapped over it.
Blue gloves are already on.

He moves straight to the incubators.
Doesn’t hesitate.

His hand slips back into Baby B’s incubator, fingers curling gently around the same spot as before, like he needs to re-anchor himself.

Dr. Kasliwal approaches quietly.
Not rushed. Respectful.

She waits until Link looks up.

DR. KASLIWAL
Dr. Lincoln

LINK
Sorry I missed your call.
I fell asleep in Jo’s room.

DR. KASLIWAL
That’s okay. 
I just wanted to update you.

Link nods once.
No energy for anything else.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Baby A is doing well enough that we’re planning a CPAP trial later today.

Link absorbs it.

LINK
CPAP trial.
That’s good news right?

She nods.

DR. KASLIWAL
Yes.
We’ll see how she tolerates breathing with less support.

A beat.

LINK
(grasping)
Okay. 

Then —

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Baby B is a little more fragile right now.
We haven’t been able to lower her vent settings yet.

That lands harder.

Link tightens his grip just slightly — gently — just enough to feel real.

LINK
So…she’s struggling.

Dr. Kasliwal meets his eyes.

DR. KASLIWAL
Right now, she needs more help, yes. 

Not softened.
Not dramatized.
Just true.

Link nods.
Once.
Twice.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.
He ignores it.

LINK
(quiet, careful)
How worried should I be? 

Dr. Kasliwal chooses her words precisely.

DR. KASLIWAL
We’re watching them closely.
This is within what we expect for babies this early.

Link hears the limits of that sentence.

Another vibration.

He exhales slowly, like letting go of something sharp.

LINK
I need to call my kids and tell them about their baby sisters.

Dr. Kasliwal doesn’t react.
Just listens.

LINK (CONT’D)
And  I just—
I need to know I’m not going to have to take it back.

He finally looks at her.
This isn’t about medicine.
It’s about damage control.

Dr. Kasliwal nods, understanding exactly what he means.

DR. KASLIWAL
You can tell them the babies are here.
You can tell them they’re being taken care of.

A beat.

DR. KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
That’s the truth. 
And right now, you want to stay with the truth.

Link swallows.
Another vibration.

This time he looks.

ON SCREEN:
MOM
Link, please call me.
We’re worried.

He glances back at the incubators.

Baby A.
Baby B.

Tiny.
Fighting.

LINK
Okay.

He withdraws his hand slowly — deliberately — like he doesn’t want to startle her.

His fingers hover for a second longer than necessary. 

Then he straightens.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ll be right back.

Dr. Kasliwal nods.

Link turns toward the doors, phone already in his hand.

At the threshold, he looks back once more.

Just to make sure they’re still there.

Then he steps out into the corridor and calls his mom.

CUT.

22.6.9 – Hour 10 – The Call Home

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL –  HOSPITAL CORRIDOR – DAY

Link stands just outside the NICU doors, phone pressed to his ear.
His back is against the wall. 

On the other end of the line:

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Link?
Oh my God — sweetheart.

Link closes his eyes.
For half a second, the weight lifts.
Just enough to hurt.

LINK
(quiet, careful)
Hey, Mom.

A pause. He swallows.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
We’ve been calling.
We’ve been so worried.

LINK
Can you talk?
I don’t want the kids to hear.

MAUREEN
Of course.
(worried)
Is— is everything okay?

He almost laughs. It comes out as breath.

LINK
No.
Not really. 

He bends forward slightly, hand coming up to his forehead, rubbing slowly.
That’s all he can give her.

Another pause. He hears her breathing — steadying herself for him.

MAUREEN (V.O.) 
I’m here.
Tell me.
 
Link opens his eyes, staring straight ahead.

LINK
Babies are here.

A beat.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Oh.
Oh, thank God.

Her relief comes fast. Unfiltered.
It lands hard — almost too hard.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re in the NICU.

A beat. Her relief shifts.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Are they okay?

Link exhales slowly.

LINK
They’re doing about what you’d expect
for babies born two months early.
They need help breathing.
And right now, all we can do is watch them closely.

Something in her tone tightens.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
(worried)
And Jo?

There it is.

Link’s jaw tightens.

LINK
She went into cardiac arrest. 

A beat — sharp, involuntary.

LINK (CONT’D)
They got her back.
She’s stable now.
 
The word feels fragile in his mouth.

LINK (CONT’D)
She hasn’t woken up yet.

Silence.
Heavy. Shared.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
(in shock)
Oh, honey…

LINK (CONT’D)
We’re taking it one hour at a time.
That’s as far into the future as he can go.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
What can I do?

LINK
I wish I knew.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
Are Luna and Scout nearby?

A soft sound from her — understanding.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
They are.
They’ve been asking about you.

LINK
Can I talk to them?

MAUREEN (V.O)
Of course.
 
The line shifts. Movement. Distant voices.

Then—

LUNA (V.O.)
Daddy?

Something in his face breaks open — just a crack.

LINK
Hey, bug.

SCOUT (V.O.)
Grandma said you’re still at the hospital.

Link hesitates.

LINK
Yeah.
I am.

A beat. He steadies himself.

LINK (CONT’D)
Listen — I wanted to tell you something important.

They go quiet. Attentive, curious. 

LINK
(it costs him)
Your baby sisters are here.

LUNA (V.O.)
They’re here?!

SCOUT (V.O.)
Like… born?

LINK
(a small, careful smile)
Yeah.

Their excitement bursts through — fast, bright, unfiltered.

For one moment, Link lets it reach him.

He smiles.
A real one.

LUNA (V.O.)
We have sisters?

SCOUT (V.O.)
Two of them?

LINK
Two.

LUNA (V.O.)
Are they cute?

LINK
(smiles)
Yeah.
They really are.

SCOUT (V.O.)
Are they crying?

LINK
Mostly they’re sleeping.

LUNA (V.O.)
Are they tiny?

LINK
Very.

A beat — their imaginations racing.

SCOUT (V.O.)
Can they hear us?

That one lands.

Link swallows.
LINK
No.
They are in another room, sleeping.

A breath.

The joy softens into wonder.

LINK (CONT’D)
They came a little sooner than expected.
They’re very tiny.
So the doctors are keeping a close eye on them,
just to make sure they’re okay.

They take that in.

LUNA (V.O.)
Is Mom with you?

The smile fades — not gone, just contained.

LINK
She’s resting.

That’s enough for them.

SCOUT (V.O.)
When can we meet them?

LINK
Soon.
Not yet.
But soon.

LUNA & SCOUT (V.O.)
Yay!!

LINK
I love you both so much.

LUNA & SCOUT (V.O.)
We love you Daddy!

He closes his eyes.
He lets that stay.

Only then—

LUNA (O.S.)
(to Eric)
Grandpa! Grandpa!
We have sisters!

ERIC (V.O)
Oh— that’s wonderful.

Already, their focus is drifting — naturally, happily.

The phone shifts back.

The background noise fades.

It’s just him and his mom now.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
We’ve got them.

Link doesn’t speak right away.

LINK (CONT’D)
They sounded so happy.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
They are.

Silence.

LINK
(quiet, finally exposed)
What if I make it real for them
and then it isn’t.

That’s the confession.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
You told them what was true today.
That’s what matters.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I don’t know how to do this without her.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
You won’t have to.

His breath shakes. He can’t stop it now.

The call stays open. No fixing.

No answers.

Just a son, held up by a voice on the other end of the line.

LINK
I’ll call again in a couple of hours.
Okay?

MAUREEN
Alright, honey. 
Call me anytime. 
We love you. All four of you. 

FADE OUT.

22.6.10 – Hour 11 – A Brief Moment Alone

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – BATHROOM – LATER

The door clicks shut.

Link stands at the sink, staring at his reflection.
It takes a second to recognize himself.

He turns on the tap.
Cold water.

He splashes his face once.
Twice.

The sound is too loud in the small room.

He grips the edge of the sink with his one good arm, knuckles whitening.

Breath in.
Breath out.

For a moment, something presses at the surface —
too much, too fast.

He shuts his eyes.
Just a beat.

Then opens them again.

Contained.

He reaches for a paper towel.
Dries his face.

He straightens. 

Adjusts the sling.

A deliberate choice.

INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – CORRIDOR – CONTINUOUS

Link steps out of the bathroom.

Teddy passes by. Slows when she sees him.
Takes him in — the posture, the exhaustion.

TEDDY
Hey.
Any updates on Jo?

LINK
No.

TEDDY
I’ll come by later, after my consult. 
Have you eaten anything?

Link shakes his head. Almost apologetic.

LINK
I am being pulled in every direction. 

Teddy doesn’t respond to the words — just the need underneath.

TEDDY
(resting a hand on his arm)
Let me ask someone to bring you something.

Link shakes his head automatically. Not refusal — habit.

Teddy doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t wait for permission.
She keeps walking.

TEDDY (O.S)
I wasn't asking.

Link stands there a moment longer than necessary.

Then he turns back toward the NICU.

Back into it.

FADE OUT.

TWELVE HOURS LATER

Bailey is sitting at Jo’s bedside. Webber finds her there. Baileys says the heart pump is doing its job, but admits she won’t feel any relief until Jo wakes up. When Bailey has to step away to check on another patient, she asks Webber to stay with Jo. She doesn’t want her to be alone until Link comes back.

In the NICU, Ben is with Link. He tells him the twins are beautiful. Link replies quietly that they’re so small. Ben adds, “But mighty.” When Ben asks about names, Link says they haven’t decided yet: he can’t name them without Jo, or he’ll have a very short marriage.

Link updates Ben on the babies’ conditions:

Baby A is doing well enough to attempt a CPAP trial later in the day.
Baby B is more fragile; they haven’t been able to lower her ventilator settings.

Ben reassures Link that it’s only been twelve hours. This is still very early.

Dr. Kasliwal tells Link that she detected a heart murmur on Baby B. She orders an echocardiogram and tells Link she’ll come find him once they have results. Link is visibly shaken — his day-old baby is getting a heart echo. Ben reminds him to pace himself: this is a marathon.

Later, outside Jo’s room, Ndugu updates Link on Jo’s condition. Her echocardiogram shows no improvement in her ejection fraction. The pump is keeping her alive and giving her heart a chance to recover from cardiomyopathy, but for now all they can do is monitor her EF and contractility.

Frustrated, Link asks what happens if her heart doesn’t recover. Ndugu tells him they would have to consider a more permanent solution, possibly a heart transplant. Overwhelmed, Link asks for a moment alone with his wife.

Teddy finds Link in Jo’s room with coffee. She checks in on him as he fills out the birth certificate applications. When she asks about the babies, Link says they’re adjusting to life in the NICU.

A text from the NICU arrives: the results of Baby B’s echo are in. Link freezes, unsure how to process what’s coming. Teddy offers to go with him and help ask the right questions. Before leaving, Link tells Jo he’ll be back.

In the NICU, Teddy meets the twins, so tiny and precious. Dr. Kasliwal explains that Baby B has a patent ductus arteriosus (PDA): an opening between the pulmonary artery and the aorta that hasn’t closed, placing extra strain on her heart. While all preemies have some degree of PDA, the concern is how symptomatic it becomes.

Kasliwal explains that Baby B may eventually need surgery, but they’ll start with multiple rounds of meds. A known side effect of PDA is urinary retention, which can worsen breathing. She reassures Link that if that happens, they’ll know how to manage it. Teddy gently intervenes, reminding Link they need to focus on one thing at a time. Right now, they just need Baby B to pee.

Link insists he can’t focus on one thing. He needs to check on Jo, Luna, and Scout too. Teddy tells him to call the kids while she stays with the babies. When Link hesitates because Baby A’s CPAP trial is about to start, Teddy tells him he also needs to take care of the rest of his family. She promises to call immediately if anything changes.

Meanwhile, Ben and Nurse Iris examine Jo. There’s still no improvement in her ejection fraction, but Ndugu isn’t worried yet. Iris confirms the C-section site looks good. Ndugu jokes about never wanting to do that again; Iris teases him, saying they made a pretty good team.

Back in the NICU, Baby A does well on CPAP and will remain on it until she can breathe independently.

Baby B, however, begins to struggle. Her oxygen needs outpace the ventilator, and the team decides to place her on high-frequency oscillatory ventilation. Dr. Kasliwal asks Teddy to call Link immediately.

Link rushes back and asks if his daughter is okay. Teddy tells him to prepare himself as it will look rough as they had to escalate support. Link lashes out, accusing Teddy of downplaying the situation over the phone by saying it was “just another vent.” He’s furious that Baby B was sedated without him there. Teddy reminds him there was no other option. Baby B was desaturating. Link says he never should have left her in charge. Teddy tells him he can’t be everywhere at once, and he did nothing wrong. Still, Link is consumed by guilt.

Back in Jo’s room, Jo suddenly goes into ventricular tachycardia. Bailey calls for Ndugu as Ben rushes back in. Ndugu realizes the Swan-Ganz catheter has coiled in the right ventricle. He inflates and advances it into the pulmonary artery. Jo stabilizes.

Bailey silently spirals into a panic attack. Ben notices and helps her ground herself, guiding her to focus on his voice until she calms down.

Later, Link sits alone in the hospital chapel when Webber joins him. Link admits he doesn’t even know why he’s there. He’s not religious. Webber tells him that belief isn’t a requirement for prayer.

Link confesses his guilt: his daughter was sedated and placed on a medieval-looking oscillator, and he wasn’t there. She had to go through it alone. He was looking for forgiveness, but hasn’t found any. He also admits that Jo told him she prayed for him after the explosion — that it helped her — but praying only makes him angry.

Webber reflects on his own struggles with faith and explains that prayer isn’t about answers; it’s about peace in moments of doubt. When Link says it doesn’t work for him, Webber offers another perspective: in recovery, if you can’t believe in a higher power, believe in the people around you. Link and Jo are surrounded by people who love them. In this moment of doubt, Webber tells him to let them give him peace.

Back in the NICU, Teddy spends time with the twins before heading home. Link apologizes for his reaction. He admits he doesn’t even know how to hold it together anymore. Teddy reassures him she’s there — whatever he needs — and encourages him to try to get some sleep.

Link stays with the twins. He tells them he’s already told their brother and sister that they’re here and that they can’t wait to meet them.

Then he notices something small but miraculous: Baby B has peed. A sign of improvement. A tiny victory in a day filled with fear.

Later, Link rushes to Jo’s room after getting a text from Ben. Jo’s heart contractility has improved. Her ejection fraction is up five percent. Her heart is recovering. Another small victory.

Ben offers to give them some privacy as he heads to check on the twins.

Link sits beside Jo and talks to her. He admits he knows he’s rambling, but Baby B looks just like Luna. Baby A scrunches her nose the same way Jo does when she thinks he’s talking too much.

And then — Jo’s eyes open.

Missing Scenes Batch 22.7

22.7.1 – DAY ONE – Jo Wakes Up

INT. ICU ROOM — NIGHT

Jo’s eyelids flutter.
Link notices immediately.

LINK
(soft, immediate)
Jo?

Her eyes open.
They stay open.

Her chest jerks sharply.

A breath that doesn’t work the way it should. 

Something is in her throat. Blocking. Forcing air.

Her eyes dart. Ceiling, lights, a room she can’t place.
Her body strains.

A sound tries to come out.
Nothing does.

The ventilator answers for her.
Her heart rate spikes on the monitor.

Link is already on his feet.

He moves into her line of sight, close enough that she can’t miss him.

Her hands lift — instinctive, urgent — reaching for the tube.
Link intercepts with his good hand.
Redirects. Not forceful.
He guides her hand down gently to the mattress.
Grounding. Not restraining.

LINK
(low, steady)
Hey. Hey.
Jo.
You’re breathing with help.
Don’t fight it.

She locks onto him, terrified. 
Her fingers curl in the sheet instead.
Her breathing stays frantic. The machine adjusts in response.

LINK (CONT’D)
(trying to stay steady)
You’re in the ICU.
You’re safe.
You need the tube right now.

The words barely register. 
The tube burns. Every instinct in her body wants it out.

An alarm chirps.
A nurse enters quickly.

Link doesn’t look away from Jo.

LINK
(clear, controlled)
She’s panicking.
(to the corridor)
Can someone get Dr. Ndugu, please? 

NURSE
Already on it.

The nurse is already checking the monitor.

Jo shifts — weak, disoriented — her hand drifting toward her abdomen.

Her eyes search past Link.
Around the room.
Faster now.
Searching.
For the bassinet.
There isn’t one.

Her breathing spikes again. 
Link sees it immediately.
He leans in.

LINK (CONT’D)
(gentle, firm)
Jo. Look at me.

Her eyes snap back to his.

LINK (CONT’D)
(grounding)
The babies are okay.

That lands.
Jo’s eyes widen.

Tears spill instantly.
Her breathing stutters, then slows just slightly.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re in the NICU.
They’re safe.

Her heart rate begins to ease.
Still high. But lower.

Her eyes never leave Link.

Then pain spikes again.
Sharp. Relentless.

Her body trembles.

She grabs Link’s arm and presses it.
Urgent, wordless.

Her breathing fights the machine again. 

LINK (CONT’D)
(to the nurse, controlled)
Can we give her a small fentanyl bolus?

The nurse nods, already preparing it.

LINK
(to Jo)
It’s going to help.

Her eyes squeeze shut.

A sound tries to escape.
Pain flashes across her face. Unmistakable.

Her eyes find his again.
Scared. Fighting.

A few seconds.
Too long.

The medication starts.
The pump hums softly.

Her shoulders begin to drop.
Not relaxed.
Just less rigid.

Her breathing synchronizes more with the machine.
Her eyelids grow heavy.

Link sees it. 
His jaw tightens.

LINK
(quiet, urgent)
I’m here.
I’m not going anywhere.

Her eyes cling to his.
Then focus slips.
She drifts.
Not asleep.
Sedated.

The ventilator settles into a steady rhythm.

The room quiets.

Link brushes her hair back carefully.
His hand trembles.

LINK
(low, almost to himself)
I’m sorry.

He swallows.
He leans closer.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’ll take it out as soon as your body’s ready.
I promise.

She can’t respond.

He stays there a moment longer. 
Watching her slip, calmer now, but still unreachable.

He just got her back.
And she’s already slipping away again.

Then slowly, he lowers himself back into the chair beside her bed.
He reaches for her hand.
Threads his fingers through hers.
He leans forward, forehead almost resting against the mattress.
And presses a quiet kiss to her knuckles.

His shoulders finally sag.

LINK
(soft, breaking)
I love you.

He stays.
Holding her hand.

The machines breathe for her.

The night stretches on.

FADE OUT

22.7.2 – DAY ONE – Ndugu Checks on Jo

INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

Jo lies still now.
Lightly sedated. Breathing paced by the ventilator.

Link sits at her bedside, one hand wrapped around hers. Careful. 

He hasn’t moved.

Dr. Ndugu enters quietly, already scanning the monitors.
Vent settings. Vitals. Fentanyl rate. Impella console.

Then he looks at Link.

NDUGU
Heard she woke up.

Link nods.
Eyes still on Jo.

LINK
Just now.
(a beat)
She panicked.

He falters.

LINK (CONT'D)
The tube—

He stops himself.

His thumb presses lightly into Jo’s palm.
Grounding himself.

LINK (CONT’D)
We gave her a small fentanyl bolus.

There’s guilt in the way he says it.

Ndugu steps closer to the bed.
Checks her pupils. Watches her chest rise. The monitor.
Everything stable.

NDUGU
That was the right call.

Link exhales. It doesn’t ease him.

LINK
I can’t watch her go through that again.

Now he looks at Ndugu.
Raw.

LINK (CONT’D)
How long until we can take her off the vent?

That’s the question.
Not if.
When.

Ndugu doesn’t answer immediately.

He watches the monitor a moment longer.
He chooses his words carefully because he knows exactly who he’s talking to.

NDUGU
She arrested, Link.

Simple. Direct. 

He gestures toward the Impella. 

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Her heart’s still being supported.
(a beat)
She’s not strong enough to breathe safely on her own yet.

Link nods.
He knows this.
Hates it anyway.

NDUGU
Tomorrow we can try a spontaneous breathing trial.
See what she can manage.
(a beat)
If she tolerates it, we can talk about extubation.
 
Link looks back at Jo.
Too still.

LINK
And until then?

Ndugu follows his gaze.

NDUGU
We keep her light.

A glance at the sedation drip.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Awake when we can.
Comfortable enough not to fight it.

LINK
She hates it.

NDUGU
Most people do.

A beat.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
But light sedation is safer than knocking her out.
Better odds we get that tube out sooner.

He meets Link’s eyes, knowing he understands every word.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
You’d make the same call.

That lands harder than reassurance.

Link nods once.

LINK
I know.

A pause.
 
NDUGU
She woke up twelve hours after surgery, Link.

That gets his attention.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
That’s something.

Small. But real. 

Link absorbs it. 
Doesn’t smile.
But steadies. 

LINK
Tomorrow.

NDUGU
One day at a time.

Ndugu leaves the room.

Link tightens his hold on Jo’s hand.
Stays.

LINK
(very soft)
I’m here.

Jo’s breathing remains steady, assisted. 

Her grip loosens slightly around his fingers.
A small shift.
Not deeper sedation.
Just exhaustion.

Link stays exactly where he is.
Watching her breathe.
Waiting.

FADE OUT.

22.7.3 – DAY ONE – Bailey Checks on Link

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — EVENING

Jo is sleeping now.
Link leans in close. 

LINK
I’ll be right back.

He presses a lingering kiss on her forehead. 
Steps just outside the room.

Glances back through the glass.
She’s still. The ventilator running steady. Monitors calm.
He eases the door closed.

His phone vibrates.

A text from Ben. 

BEN (TEXT)
Just left the NICU.
Everything’s okay. 
Told the team to keep eyes on them.

Link exhales.
Just a little.

He pockets the phone.
Heads toward the vending machines.

The corridor is quieter now.
Night shift settling in.

He reaches the coffee machine, stares at it for a second longer than necessary.

BAILEY (O.S.)
Lincoln.

He turns.

Bailey stands a few feet away.
Out of scrubs. Coat on. Purse over her shoulder.
On her way home.

She studies his face.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I was just leaving.
Thought I’d check in first.
(a beat)
How is she?

Link leans back against the wall.
For the first time all day, his shoulders drop a fraction.

LINK
In and out since she woke up.

A pause.

LINK (CONT’D)
She panicked with the tube. 
We gave her fentanyl. 

Bailey nods once.
Expected. 

She takes him in: the unfocused stare, the weight of the day.

BAILEY
(soft)
Lincoln.

He looks up.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
This is going to take time.

He doesn’t argue.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
In a day or two, they’ll trial her off the vent.
And when they do—

She steps closer.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
—she’s going to need you steady.

Link swallows.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
You can’t be running on fumes.

A beat.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Sleep when you can.

LINK
(worn)
I can’t. 
What if she wakes up and I’m not there?

It slips out before he can stop it.

LINK (CONT’D)
(small)
You should have seen her.
(a beat) 
She was terrified.

Bailey holds his gaze for a second longer.

BAILEY
She’s drifting.
She’s not really there right now.

She looks at him. Barely holding himself right now.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Linda’s with her tonight.
I told her to get you if anything changes.

She pulls out her phone.
Already operational.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Which on-call room?

Link hesitates.

LINK
I don’t want her waking up alone.
(his voice drops)
Not until they take the tube out.

Bailey steps closer.

BAILEY
She’s not alone.
Linda’s watching over her.
 
A beat.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
But she will be if you crash. 

That lands.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Your daughters need you upright too.

She looks him over.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Have you eaten?

LINK
Teddy grabbed me something for lunch.

Bailey checks the time.
Raises an eyebrow.

BAILEY
That was, what—
ten hours ago?

Silence. 

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Lincoln.

She steps closer.

Now the Chief.
 
BAILEY (CONT’D)
You are going to the cafeteria.
You are going to eat.
(a beat)
Or I will walk you there myself.

Link exhales.
Not arguing.

LINK
Okay.

BAILEY
Good.

He nods toward the elevator.

LINK
I’ll stop by the NICU first.
Say good night.

Bailey’s expression softens.

BAILEY
(softer)
Say hi to your girls for me.
 
She gestures down the hall.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
Now go.
(a beat)
And text me your on-call room number.
 
Link nods, gives one last look toward Jo’s room.
Then turns and walks.

FADE OUT.

22.7.4 – DAY ONE – Link Says Good Night to the Twins

INT. NICU — NIGHT

The lights are low.

Monitors glow in the dark. A steady mechanical hum fills the room — rhythmic, relentless.

Link stands between two incubators.

Baby A sleeps curled under soft light, CPAP prongs secured beneath her tiny nose.
Her chest rises and falls gently. A nasogastric tube rests against her cheek.
Small. Supported. Stable.

Baby B lies intubated.
The oscillator pulses beside her. Rapid, relentless bursts of pressure.
Her tiny chest vibrates with each high-frequency breath.
More lines. More wires.

He looks at Baby A.

LINK
(quiet)
You’re doing so good.

He slides his hand through the access port, letting her fingers wrap around his finger.

Then he turns to Baby B.

The oscillator hums between them.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey.

He presses his fingertip gently against the inside of her wrist, careful of the lines.

LINK (CONT’D)
(lower)
You keep fighting.

The oscillator continues its rhythm.

LINK (CONT’D)
Your mom’s going to be here soon.

A beat.

He glances at both incubators.

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

He straightens.

LINK
(to the nurse)
Call me if anything changes.

The nurse nods.

LINK
(soft, to the babies)
Good night.
 
The oscillator keeps humming.
Link lingers one second longer with Baby B.

Then he turns and walks out.

FADE OUT.

22.7.5 – DAY ONE – Link Finally Rests

INT. ON-CALL ROOM — NIGHT

The door closes softly behind Link.

The room is dark. Small. Quiet.

He doesn’t turn on the light.

He stands there for a second. Still.
Then exhales, slow, shaky, like he’s been holding it all day.

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the narrow bed. 
Just for a second.
He drops his phone on the bedside table.
He doesn’t take off his shoes.
Doesn’t bother undressing. 

He lowers himself carefully, protecting his injured arm, and lets himself fall onto the mattress fully dressed.
One arm resting across his chest, the other secured in its sling.

His eyes close.
The tension leaves his face, piece by piece.
Breathing slows.
Not asleep.
Shutdown.

A body finally letting go after running on adrenaline.

FADE OUT.

22.7.6 – DAY TWO – Link Wakes Up Disoriented

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.

22.7.7 – DAY TWO – Link Goes to See the Twins

INT. ICU ROOM — AFTERNOON

Jo is asleep now.
Breathing steady.
Ventilator cycling smoothly.
Sedation light.

Link watches her for a beat longer than necessary.
Then he reaches out and gently squeezes her leg through the sheet.

LINK
(low)
I’ll be back.

He steps out, sliding the glass door closed carefully.
He hands the nurse an empty food tray.

LINK
Thank you.
I’m going to check on the twins.

The nurse nods.

LINK (CONT’D)
If anything changes–

NURSE
We’ll call you, Dr. Lincoln.

Link gives one last look through the glass.
Then walks away.

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — CONTINUOUS

He rounds the corner and nearly runs into Teddy.
She reads him immediately: the tension, the exhaustion still clinging to him.

TEDDY
Hey.

LINK
Hey.
I’m heading down to the NICU.

A beat.

TEDDY
I’ll walk you.

They fall into step.

TEDDY (CONT’D)
I heard Baby B peed last night.

Link nods.

A flicker of relief. Brief, cautious.

LINK
Yeah.
She’s still on high-frequency.
But it’s something.

Teddy gives a small nod.
That matters.

A beat.

TEDDY
And Jo?

Link doesn’t answer right away.

LINK
Still vented.
They’re planning an SBT this afternoon.

A beat.

TEDDY
Good.
 
LINK
Hopefully we can get the tube out.

He exhales.
Not relief.
Not yet.

They slow near the NICU doors.

TEDDY
Let me know if you need anything...

Link nods, then—
a flicker.

LINK
(quiet, almost to himself)
Can you fast-forward us out of this?

Teddy holds his gaze.
A beat.

TEDDY
That I can't.
(a beat)
But I can help you through it.

A beat.

TEDDY (CONT'D)
If you need me to take Luna and Scout—

LINK
My parents have them.
But… thank you.

Teddy nods.
A beat.

TEDDY (CONT'D)
(soft)
Go see your girls.

She reaches out, squeezes his good arm briefly.
Grounding.

He nods.
Then turns and heads inside.

FADE OUT.

22.7.8 – DAY TWO – Link Gets Updates on the Twins

INT. NICU — AFTERNOON

The NICU hums softly.
Monitors. IV pumps. Vent oscillation.
Controlled quiet.

Baby A lies under CPAP — small chest rising steadily, nasal prongs secured carefully.
Baby B remains on high-frequency oscillation. The rapid oscillation visible in tiny, constant chest vibrations.

Link stands beside the incubators as Dr. Kasliwal joins him, tablet in hand.

She speaks calmly. Precisely.

KASLIWAL
Baby A’s breathing looks better today.
She’s tolerating the CPAP well.

Link nods.
Careful hope.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We were able to increase her feeds slightly.
No setbacks.

Measured.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She’s tolerating her feeds so far — no residuals.

Link exhales quietly.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Her weight loss is within expected range for day two.

Not victory. Just movement.

LINK
Yeah…
But I wish the curve was going up.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
At this stage, we expect some loss before things start to level off.

Link nods.

She shifts slightly toward the other incubator.

LINK
(worried)
What about Baby B?

KASLIWAL
We’re keeping her on high-frequency oscillation for now.
But we reduced her settings slightly this morning.
Her oxygen requirements are coming down a bit.

A beat.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
It’s a small step.
She still needs full respiratory support.

Clear. Grounded.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
And she’s still sedated to keep her comfortable.

Link drops his gaze to the incubator.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She’s put out urine twice since last night.

Link nods. He was there for one of them.

LINK
That’s… good, right?

KASLIWAL
It is encouraging, yes.
It means the medication is starting to have an effect on the PDA.

Link absorbs that.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
There’s also a small atrial septal defect on her echo.
We see that fairly often in preemies. For now, we’re just monitoring it.

Link takes it in.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
It’s something that can close on its own over time.
(a beat)
But nothing I’m concerned about right now.

Then—

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Her weight dropped a little more than her sister’s overnight.

Link’s jaw tightens.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Still within expected range for a baby this premature.
But she’s working harder.

Honest. Not alarming.

Link absorbs it.

Two daughters.
Two different curves.

They both look at Baby B's incubator for a beat. Silent.

Kasliwal turns toward Baby A's. Link follows.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
If Baby A remains stable today, we can consider skin-to-skin tomorrow.

Link looks at the CPAP.

LINK
Even with the CPAP?

KASLIWAL
Yes.
We secure everything.
She stays supported.

Conditional.
A small beat.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
As long as her oxygen levels stay stable with handling.

Link frowns.

LINK
I’m a doctor…
and I feel like I don’t know anything right now.

Kasliwal softens, just slightly.

KASLIWAL
You’re not a neonatologist.
(a beat)
NICU is a whole different world.

The words land.

LINK
And Baby B?

Kasliwal shakes her head gently.

KASLIWAL
Not while she’s on high-frequency.

Clear. Immediate.
Link nods, eyes still on the incubator.
He already knew the answer.
Still had to ask.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
HFOV babies need minimal stimulation.
We don’t move them unless we have to.

No softening.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She needs to step down to conventional support before we even talk about that.
(a beat)
Any agitation can work against the ventilation —
that’s part of why she’s still sedated.

Link nods.
He looks at his babies.
Smaller than they should be.
Fighting anyway.

LINK
What about Jo?

Kasliwal considers her words.

KASLIWAL
Once she’s extubated and hemodynamically stable,
we’ll start with short, supervised visits.

No promises.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Holding them will require energy she may not have immediately.

That lands.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
As soon as she’s ready, we’ll make it work.

A beat.
Link's hand comes to rest on Baby A's incubator.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Your daughters are moving in the right direction.
(a beat)
But in the NICU, we measure progress shift by shift.

The truth.

She closes the tablet and gives him a final nod and moves on.

Link stays.
Between the incubators.
Trying to picture tomorrow.
Trying to picture holding something that fragile.

Link glances at his watch.
Time pressing in again.

LINK
(soft)
I’ll be back later.

He rests his hand on Baby A's incubator a little longer.
Then on Baby B's.

Careful. Reverent.

LINK (CONT’D)
I love you both.

No promises.
Just presence.

He steps away.

Not relieved.
Just steadier.

FADE OUT.

22.7.9 – DAY TWO – Jo Attemps a Beathing Trial

INT. ICU ROOM — AFTERNOON

Jo is awake.
Eyes open. Heavy. Tracking slowly.

The ventilator breathes for her. Steady. Mechanical.

Iris stands at the bedside, finishing up: discarding gloves, smoothing the sheet back into place, checking the abdominal dressing one last time.

Clinical. Gentle. Familiar.

Link enters as Ndugu and Ben step in behind him.

All three clock Jo’s eyes.
Present. Aware.

Link moves immediately to her side.

LINK
I’m here.

IRIS
(to Jo, soft)
All done.

She gives Link a small nod and steps out — the room already full.

Ndugu comes into Jo’s line of sight.

NDUGU
Okay, Jo.
We’re going to try a short breathing trial.

Her eyes focus.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We’re going to switch you to minimal support and see how you tolerate breathing on your own.
The tube stays in.

A beat.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
If it’s too much, we stop right away.

Link leans closer.

LINK
(quiet, steady)
They’re just seeing how much you can take on.
That’s it.

Jo blinks once. Slow. Intentional.
Ready.

Ndugu nods to Ben.

The ventilator settings adjust.
The machine’s assist softens.
Almost imperceptible.

At first, she manages.
Her chest rises on its own.

Shallow but controlled.
Link watches her face — every muscle, every shift.

Seconds stretch.
Her breathing quickens.
Her brow tightens.

Her grip tightens around Link’s hand.

BEN
Respiratory rate’s climbing.

A beat.
Both doctors watch the monitor.
Link watches her.

BEN (CONT’D)
Heart rate’s up.

Jo’s breaths grow faster now.
Effortful.

Her shoulders begin to engage.
She’s working.

Her eyes shine. Not panic.
Fatigue.

She looks at Link.
He squeezes her hand.

LINK
You’re doing great.

Her breaths become uneven.
A small tremor runs through her abdomen.

NDUGU
Alright.

No drama. Just decision.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Let’s give her support back.

Ben adjusts the ventilator.

NDUGU (CONT'D)
And give her a little more for comfort.

Ben nods, adjusts the sedation pump slightly.

Ventilator support comes back up.

The machine takes over more of the work.

Jo sags back into the mattress.

Her shoulders ease.

Spent.
Not dramatic. Just empty.

Breathing still fast. Then gradually steadier.

The room settles.

Link exhales. He hadn’t realized he was holding it.

He looks at Ndugu.
Just a look.
Ndugu meets it.

NDUGU
She’s not ready yet.

Simple. Neutral.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Her lungs can do it.
Her heart just can’t support the effort yet.

Accurate.
Post-arrest.
Cardiac strain.

Link nods, absorbing it for her.
He leans toward Jo.

LINK
(reassuring, reframing)
You did great.
That’s all they wanted to see today.

Jo’s eyes open again.
Tears slip free, slow, tired.
More frustration than fear.

She squeezes his hand once.
Weak. But there.

Ndugu watches quietly.

NDUGU
We’ll let her rest.
Reassess tomorrow.

Measured. No false hope.

Ndugu and Ben step out quietly.

The ventilator continues its rhythm.

Link leans forward.
Presses a kiss to her knuckles.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
It just shows us where you are today.

Her eyes close fully.
Exhausted.
Finally still.

Link stays.
Hand wrapped around hers.

The ventilator continues its steady rhythm.
He waits.

FADE OUT.

22.7.10 – DAY TWO – Link Steps Outside for Air

INT. ICU ROOM — EVENING

Jo sleeps.
Ventilator steady.
Sedation light.

Peaceful, finally.
Link still sits beside her.

He hasn’t moved since the trial.

After a long beat, he gently releases her fingers.
Stands.

Smooths the sheet at her shoulder.
Careful.

He doesn’t kiss her. 
Doesn’t risk waking her now that she’s resting.
He studies her face.

LINK
(whisper)
I’ll be back in the morning.

It costs him.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
Good night, my love.

He pauses at the door.
Almost turns back.

Doesn’t.
He steps out.

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — CONTINUOUS

The door slides closed behind him.
Link walks a few steps toward the nurses’ station.

LINK
I’ll be in on-call room five.
Call me if anything changes.

He starts moving. Stops.

LINK (CONT’D)
And make sure she's comfortable.

The nurse nods.

NURSE
We will.
 
LINK
Thanks.

He walks.
to the elevator.
Down.
Out toward the ER entrance.

He just needs air.

Owen, chart in hand, notices him from the desk.
The ER is unusually calm.

EXT. ER ENTRANCE — CONTINUOUS

Cool air. 
Link steps outside.

Stops just beyond the sliding doors.
Hands on his hips. Looking down.

He inhales.
The first real breath he’s taken all day.

OWEN
Rough day, huh?

Link almost laughs.

LINK
Yeah.

Owen steps beside him. Not facing him. Just there.

OWEN
How’d the trial go?

Link hesitates.

LINK
She lasted a few minutes.
(a beat)
Heart couldn’t tolerate it.

Owen nods once.

OWEN
(soft)
She’ll get there.
Jo’s a fighter.

A beat.

Link stares ahead.
Exhales, shaky now.

LINK
I keep thinking we’re close.
(a beat)
Then we’re not.

Owen lets that sit.

OWEN
Recovery doesn’t move in straight lines.
You know that.

Link nods, eyes fixed ahead.
It lands a little deeper.

OWEN (CONT’D)
And sometimes it’s harder for the one still standing.

Link swallows.

LINK
I wouldn’t say that.
She’s the one with a tube in her throat.

OWEN
The meds blunt a lot of it.
She may not be carrying this the way you are.

Link looks away. Jaw tight.
 
LINK
I don’t know what she’s thinking in there.
(a beat)
Or how much she understands.

A long beat. 
Owen glances at him, then back ahead.

LINK (CONT’D)
I feel like I’ve been in this hospital forever.

OWEN
Yeah.
That happens in here.

Not a platitude.
Recognition.

LINK 
First time I’ve stepped outside without thinking everything would fall apart if I did.

Owen studies him.

OWEN
That’s progress.
Whether you feel it or not.

Link nods. Barely.

A beat.

OWEN
How are your girls?

LINK
Tomorrow I start skin-to-skin with Baby A.

A flicker crosses his face.

LINK (CONT’D)
And I hate that Jo can’t be there for it.

There it is.

Owen considers that.

OWEN
She’d want you there.

Simple. Certain.

LINK
I know.

He does.
He just doesn’t feel it yet.

A long beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I don’t know what to say to her about the twins.
(a beat)
I don’t know if it helps…
or just reminds her she’s not with them.

Owen places a hand on Link’s good shoulder.

OWEN
You don’t have to make peace with everything tonight.

Link glances at him.
A beat.

OWEN
She’ll want to hear about them. 
Just… give her what she can carry right now.

Silence.

The ER doors slide open behind them. Close again.

Life keeps moving. 
Link nods, not because he’s convinced, but because he’s heard.

LINK
I’m going to see the girls.

OWEN
Yeah.
(a beat)
Then sleep.

Link nods once.

He turns. Walks back inside.

The air doesn’t fix anything.
But he’s steadier.

FADE OUT.

22.7.11 – DAY THREE – Link Gets Ready for the Day

INT. LOCKER ROOM — MORNING

Steam lingers in the air.

Link stands under the shower longer than necessary.

His left hand braces his right forearm. Protective, unconscious. 

Face tilted into the spray.
Not really washing.
Letting the noise drown everything out.

The water runs.
He doesn’t move.

Finally, he reaches up. Turns it off.

Silence rushes back in.

He steps out.
Hair damp.
Same exhaustion.

He dries off quickly.
Dresses from a worn gym bag.
Movements automatic. Efficient. 

Still standing.
Still moving.

He hesitates, then slips the sling back on.

The weight of his arm settles into it.

A dull pull radiates through his shoulder when he shifts.
Not sharp. Just stubborn. 
A reminder he’s been skipping PT for the past few days.

He rolls it once.
Regrets it.
Lets the sling take the load.
Keeps moving.

His phone vibrates.
A photo from Maureen. 
Scout and Luna, half-asleep, tangled in blankets.
Luna’s hair in her mouth. Scout’s arm flung across her face. 
Domestic chaos. Safe.
 
MAUREEN (TEXT)
Hi, honey. 
They asked for you this morning. Everything’s fine.
Aquarium today. They’re very excited.
Give your girls a kiss for us.
We can’t wait to see you. 
I hope Jo’s improving like she should.
Tell her we’re thinking of her.
Love you. Mom. 

Link stares at the screen. 
His thumb hovers longer than it should.

He types.
They’re stable.
Deletes.

Types again.
She’s better.
Deletes.

The cursor blinks. 
Finally he sends two hearts.

That’s all he has.

He scrolls up. 
A thread full of updates.
Photos and messages from Maureen.
Updates. Check-ins. Reassurance.

Link’s replies are sparse.
But they’re there.

He locks the phone.

Eyes closed.  One beat. 
He exhales. Grounds himself.
Tucks the phone into his pocket.

Shoulders back.
Sling adjusted.
Mask back on.

He opens the locker room door and steps out.

FADE OUT.

22.7.12 – DAY THREE – Jo Gets a Morning Update

INT. ICU ROOM — MORNING

Jo is awake.
Eyes open. Clearer than yesterday.
Still heavy, but tracking with intention now.

The ventilator hums softly.

Iris stands at the bedside, finishing the dressing over the C-section site.
Efficient. Familiar.

Link enters quietly.

LINK
Hey.

Jo hears him immediately.
Her eyes soften when they find him.
 
Link moves to her side.

IRIS
Morning
I’m just finishing up here.

She checks the monitor, notes the numbers.

IRIS (CONT’D)
Vitals look good.

Jo processes. Slower, but present.
 
Link takes her hand.

LINK
How was the night?

IRIS
Night nurse said she slept through most of it.

LINK
Good.
 
Iris removes her gloves.

IRIS
Dr. Ndugu will be by shortly. 

She gives Jo a small smile.

IRIS (CONT’D)
(warm)
I’ll come back later and catch you up on everything.

She exits.

A quiet beat.

He brushes Jo’s hair back.
A lingering kiss to her temple.

LINK
I missed you.

He pulls back just enough to see her.

She’s watching him.
Clearer than yesterday.
A slow blink.
Present.

The door opens. 
Ndugu enters, tablet in hand.

NDUGU
Morning, Jo.

He moves to her line of sight.
Jo’s eyes shift to him.

LINK
Hi, Winston.
 
Ndugu nods.

LINK (CONT’D)
How is she doing?

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Steadier this morning. 
(a beat)
We were able to lower the Impella support slightly overnight.
She’s tolerating that.
Pressures are holding. Lactate’s normalized.

Link absorbs it.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
(to Jo)
The device is doing a little less.
Your heart’s doing a little more.

Jo’s eyes stay on him. Focused.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
It’s incremental. 
But that gives us room to try another short trial this afternoon.

Measured. Contained.
 
Jo’s breath shifts faintly around the tube.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Short trial.
Same as yesterday. We stop if it’s too much.

Link leans in slightly.

LINK
We’re just testing tolerance.

Jo blinks once.
Intentional.

NDUGU
Yesterday the effort overwhelmed your heart.
Today you’re starting from a more stable baseline.
(a beat)
We’ll see how that holds. 

That lands.

He listens briefly to her chest. Watches the monitor.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
I’ll check back later.

He exits.

Silence again.

Ventilator rhythm.
Morning light across the room.

Link squeezes Jo’s hand gently.

LINK
One step at a time.

Jo holds his gaze.
Not better yet, but present.

A beat. 

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m going to see the twins for a bit.

He hesitates.

Jo's eyes stay on him.
Her fingers tighten around his.
A question there.
Insistent.

A flicker.

He exhales, makes a choice.

LINK (CONT’D)
Baby A’s stable on CPAP.

He watches her, then—

LINK (CONT'D)
Baby B’s still on the vent.

He leaves it there. Carefully.

LINK (CONT'D)
But she’s holding.

He stops.

Something in her expression shifts.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Recognition.

For the first time, they aren’t just “the babies.”

Baby A.
Baby B.

Separate.
Real.

Her grip tightens around his hand.

Link realizes it as it happens, what those words just did.

He leans closer, voice lower now. 

LINK (CONT’D)
We’ll name them together.
(a beat, softer)
We'll wait.

Jo’s eyes fill. 
Tears slip free.
Silent.
Heavy.

Link freezes for half a beat. Then leans closer immediately.

LINK
(soft)
Hey.

He rests his forehead gently against her temple.

LINK (CONT’D)
I know this is hard.

He squeezes her hand.
Gentle. Grounding.

LINK (CONT’D)
(quiet, honest)
I’ve got them.
(a beat)
Until you can.

Jo closes her eyes.
The tears keep coming.
Quiet. Steady.

Link stays close.
Closer than before. 
Helpless. But present.

Like he’s trying to make up for something he can’t fix yet.

FADE OUT.

22.7.13 – DAY THREE – Link Holds Baby A for the First Time

INT. NICU — MORNING

The NICU hums.
Incubators.
IV pumps.
Soft alarms.

A recliner has been pulled beside Baby A’s incubator.
A privacy screen half-circles the space.

CPAP tubing loops carefully from the incubator to her face.

Link stands beside the chair.
Two NICU nurses move with practiced precision, checking lines, taping slack, securing the CPAP hat.

Dr. Kasliwal stands nearby. Observing. Calm.

Link doesn’t step forward yet.

This isn’t watching from the side of an incubator.
This requires him.

He unclips the sling slowly.
The sudden weight shift pulls at his shoulder.
A flicker of pain crosses his face. Manageable. Secondary.
He rolls his shoulder once. Grounds himself.

Kasliwal notices.

KASLIWAL
You okay?

LINK
Yeah.

Not entirely true.

He removes his shirt carefully.
Sits.
Awkward. Unsure where to place his hands.

NURSE
We’ll lift her.
Nothing comes off. CPAP stays on.
Just support her head.

Link nods.
Swallows.

LINK
(raw, contained)
Jo should be here.

Kasliwal meets his eyes.

KASLIWAL
She will be.
(a beat)
You’re not taking her place.
(another beat)
This is yours too.

Link exhales slowly.

The nurses lift Baby A from the incubator.
She startles slightly during transfer.
Heart rate rises on the monitor.

CPAP tubing tugs.

One nurse adjusts quickly.

Link glances at Dr. Kasliwal.

KASLIWAL
(soft)
It’s okay.
She's just reacting to the move.

They position her upright against Link’s bare chest.

Skin to skin.

Link is already leaning forward.

He slides his good hand beneath her diapered hips. Instinctive, secure.

His injured arm comes up more carefully, supporting her back, his fingers steady at the base of her head.

He knows how to hold a baby.
Just not one this small.
Or this wired.

NURSE
Perfect.
Just keep her head straight.
Make sure the tubing isn’t pulling.

Link adjusts by a fraction, chin aligned, CPAP secure.
They lower her onto his chest.
Upright.
Knees tucked.
Her cheek resting against his chest.
A warm blanket tucked around them.

For a moment, Baby A fusses.
Her respiratory rate quickens.

A soft alarm sounds.

A nurse adjusts the CPAP tubing.
Link freezes.
Looks at Kasliwal.

KASLIWAL
That’s normal. Give her a second.

Link forces himself to slow his breathing.
Baby A’s movements slow.
Her tiny chest rises in a softer rhythm.
Her heart rate trends down.

Not dramatic.
Just steadier.

NURSE
There we go.

Kasliwal glances at the monitor.

KASLIWAL
She’s regulating.
(a beat, to the nurse)
Let's keep a close eye on her oxygen levels with handling.

Link lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He looks down at her.
Small.
Warm.
Real.

His injured shoulder trembles slightly under the strain of holding still.

He adjusts slightly, careful not to disturb the CPAP.

LINK
(whisper)
Hi.

Baby A’s fingers flex against his chest.
Reflexive.

His eyes burn.
He doesn’t wipe the tears.

Across from him, Baby B lies in her incubator.
HFOV vibrating rhythmically.
Still sedated.
The oscillator doing the work for her.
The contrast is quiet. Heavy.

Kasliwal watches the monitor one more time.

KASLIWAL
We’ll start with twenty minutes.

Measured.

Link nods.
He lowers his chin gently toward Baby A’s head.

LINK
(quiet)
You’re doing so good.

Her breathing is still slightly irregular, but steadier.

INT. NICU — TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Time passes.
The nurses step forward.

NURSE
We’ll move her back now.

The transfer is careful. Controlled.
Monitors remain stable.
CPAP secure.
Baby A is returned to the incubator.

Link stands slowly.
Shoulder stiff.
Chest still warm.
He pulls his shirt back on.
Repositions the sling.

Slowly, he moves to Baby B’s incubator.
Slides his hand inside.

Her fingers curl around his finger.
Tiny.
But strong.
That undoes him.

LINK
(quiet)
I know.

Kasliwal joins him.

KASLIWAL
Her numbers were a little better this morning.
(a beat)
We may be able to step her down to conventional ventilation later today.

Careful optimism.
Not a promise.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’re seeing a bit more response to the medication.

LINK
(soft)
That’s my girl.

He stays there a moment longer.
Hand inside the incubator.
Present.

Kasliwal watches a moment more, then quietly steps away.

The monitors hum.
Two tiny lives breathe.

For the first time in days, he is not just watching.

FADE OUT.

22.7.14 – DAY THREE – Jo Faces Another Breathing Trial

INT. ICU ROOM — AFTERNOON

The room feels steadier today.
Monitors stable.
Impella console humming softly.
Ventilator ready.

Jo is propped upright.
Eyes open. Focused. Tired, but present.

The tube remains taped in place.

Link sits close, one hand wrapped around hers.
 
Dr. Ndugu stands at the foot of the bed.
Ben is already at the ventilator.

NDUGU
Okay, Jo.
We’re going to try again.

Her eyes shift to him.

A slow blink. Ready.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Same as yesterday.
Minimal support.
If your heart doesn’t like it, we stop.

Jo tightens her grip around Link’s fingers.
He kisses her hand.

LINK
It’s okay.
We just want to see where you are.

Ndugu nods to Ben.

A beat.

Ben nods back and changes the ventilator settings.
The machine softens.

Jo’s chest begins to work harder.
At first, her breathing speeds up.

Ben watches the monitor.

BEN
Respiratory rate’s up.
Twenty-four.

Jo’s brow tightens.
A sheen of sweat forms.

But she doesn’t panic.
Her eyes stay on Link.

LINK
(low, grounding)
I’m right here.

Minutes pass.
Her breathing steadies into a rhythm.
Still fast.
But controlled.

BEN
Sats are holding.
Pressure’s stable.

Ndugu watches another minute.
Her heart rate rises slightly.
Then plateaus.
Doesn’t spike.
Doesn’t drop.

He nods once.

NDUGU
Okay.
She’s tolerating it. 

He looks at Ben.

NDUGU (CONT'D)
I’m going to step out.
Keep her on minimal support.
Call me if anything drifts.

BEN
Got it.

Ndugu checks his watch.

NDUGU
I’ll come back in thirty minutes to reassess.

Ben nods.

Ndugu gives Ben a final look — you’ve got this — and steps out.
The door closes softly.

Ben pulls a stool closer to the bed.

BEN
Alright.
We’re just going to sit with this.

Jo’s eyes flick to him.

Time stretches.

She keeps breathing.
Shoulders working, but not urgently.

Ben glances at the monitor.

BEN (CONT’D)
Numbers look good.

He looks back at Jo.
A soft smile.

BEN (CONT’D)
So.
I finally watched that Netflix movie you told me not to watch.

Link huffs quietly.

BEN (CONT’D)
You were right.
No one survives that many explosions.

A faint exhale from Jo.
Ben keeps talking, easy. Unforced.

Her breathing evens out slightly.
Not because she’s trying, but because she’s listening.

Ben checks the monitor again.

BEN (CONT'D)
You’re doing great.

Another quiet stretch.
No arrhythmia.
No drop in pressure.
No oxygen drift.

Time passes.

Link stays close, thumb brushing slowly over her hand.

LINK
(quiet)
You're doing it.

Ben checks the clock.

BEN
We’re at thirty minutes.

He studies the monitor.

BEN (CONT’D)
Everything’s holding.

He reaches for his pager.

INT. ICU ROOM — MOMENTS LATER

Ndugu returns.

NDUGU
Alright.
How did it go in here?

BEN
She’s holding.

Link’s breath catches.

NDUGU
Good.

He studies the monitor.
Watches Jo breathe.
 
A long beat. 

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Then I’m comfortable calling this a pass.

No celebration.

Just relief, carefully contained.

Link doesn’t react right away.
He waits.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We can take the tube out.

Jo’s eyes widen.
Fear flickers.
But beneath it: readiness.

Link squeezes her hand. 
His eyes shine.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Okay.

Ndugu turns slightly towards Ben.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Go ahead.

Ben nods. Calm, focused.

He raises the head of the bed slightly more.
Positions a towel across Jo’s chest.
Checks suction.

BEN
Alright, Jo.
We’re going to suction first.

The catheter slides in.

Jo grimaces — eyes watering — but stays with them.
Quick. Controlled.

Link tightens his hold on her hand.
Ben increases oxygen briefly.

BEN (CONT'D)
We’re going to give you a little extra oxygen for a moment.
(a beat)
Just let the vent help you.

A few steady breaths.

NDUGU
When it comes out, you’ll cough.
Don’t fight it.

Jo blinks once.

Ben deflates the cuff.

BEN
Okay. On three.

Link squeezes her hand.

BEN (CONT’D)
One…
Two…
Three.

The tube slides free in one smooth motion.

Jo coughs. Hard. Instinctive.

Her body surges forward, gasping.
Ben immediately fits the oxygen mask over her face.

BEN (CONT'D)
Slow breaths.
That’s it.

She coughs again. Then again.
Her throat burns. Her chest aches.

Then air moves.
Real air.
Her own.
Rough. Hoarse. Uneven.

Her breathing finds a rhythm, shaky, uneven. But hers.

The ventilator falls silent.
Ben watches closely.

BEN (CONT'D)
Work of breathing looks okay.

After a moment, he switches the mask to a nasal cannula.
Adjusts the flow.

BEN (CONT’D)
Alright.
That’s better.
 
Jo tries to speak.
Nothing comes out.
Her throat burns.
Her eyes fill instantly.

NDUGU
Don’t rush the voice.

She nods faintly.
Exhaustion crashes in, fast and brutal.
Her head sinks back into the pillow.

Link leans close.

LINK
(soft)
I love you.

Her fingers tighten weakly around his.

She lifts a trembling hand to his cheek.
No words.
Her eyes close for half a second — overwhelmed — then open again.

She’s breathing.
On her own.
Barely.

Link doesn’t move.
He just stays exactly where he is.
Watching her breathe and knowing how fragile that still is.

They stay like that for a beat, protecting the win. 
Because everyone in the room knows this is progress, not the end of the road.

Ben and Ndugu exchange a quiet look.
Contained relief. 

They step out together, careful not to disturb the moment.

BEN
We’ll be nearby.

The door closes softly.

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — MOMENTS LATER

Jo has drifted to sleep.

Link steps out quietly. 

The adrenaline hasn’t left his body yet.

Ndugu stands at the nurses’ station, charting.

Link approaches.

LINK
So what can we expect now?

Ndugu considers him.

NDUGU
Today was a win.
(a beat)
But we don’t change the plan yet.

The relief shifts.
Not gone.
Just reshaped.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
She’s still relying heavily on the Impella.

LINK
So now we just… wait?

NDUGU
Watch and wait for her heart to recover.

Link nods slowly.
Not satisfied.

Ndugu closes the chart. 
A brief tap to Link’s shoulder.

NDUGU (CONT'D)
Take the win.
(a beat)
Let's give her time.

A measured look.

Then he walks off.

Link stands there for a beat.

Breathing.
Then he turns back toward Jo.

FADE OUT.

22.7.15 – DAY THREE – Jo Finally Sleeps, Off the Vent

INT. ICU ROOM — NIGHT

The room is dimmer now.

Jo sleeps.
Her breathing is shallow but steady.
Oxygen tubing resting beneath her nose.

Link sits at her bedside, phone in his hand.

He types.
To his mom.
Something loosens.
No hesitation this time.

TEXT 
Jo’s extubated.
Breathing on her own.
Did skin-to-skin with Baby A.
Both girls are steady.
Baby B’s still fragile but improving. 
Tell Luna and Scout I love them.

Sent.

He lowers the phone.
Watches her chest rise.
Counts without meaning to.
Lets himself believe it.

A nurse adjusts a line quietly, checks the monitor.

NURSE
She’s settling.
She’ll likely sleep most of the night.
(a beat)
You should get some sleep, Dr. Lincoln.
 
Link nods.

He leans in close, careful not to wake her.

LINK
(soft)
I’m going to go say goodnight to the babies.

He looks at the nurse.

LINK (CONT'D)
I’ll be in the on-call room after.
Call me if— 

NURSE
I will.

The nurse meets his eyes. A Soft smile.

NURSE (CONT'D)
We got her.

Link smiles back. Quiet.

He smooths the blanket once. Instinctive.
Watches her again.

She’s breathing.
On her own.

He stands.
One last look.

Then he steps out.

The door closes softly behind him.

The monitors continue their steady rhythm.
Jo sleeps.

FADE OUT.

22.7.16 – DAY FOUR – Jo Wakes Clear

INT. ICU ROOM — MORNING

Morning light filters through the blinds.
Jo is awake.

Not drifting.
Not sedated.
Awake.

Propped slightly upright.
Oxygen tubing beneath her nose.

The ventilator is gone.
The room feels quieter without it.

Her throat is raw. Her lips dry.
She swallows once and winces like it scraped on the way down.

Her eyes move to the monitor beside her.
Heart rate.
Blood pressure.
Impella flow.

She reads it automatically.
Clear.
No sedation haze.
The pain meds have been stepped down.

This is her.
Fully present, despite exhaustion.

She remembers enough.
The rush into surgery.
The C-section.
The babies alive.
Link’s voice through the fog.

Her breathing shifts. Careful, controlled.
The door opens.

Link steps quietly into the room.
He stops for a beat when he sees her eyes open, focused, aware.

Relief hits him hard. He swallows it down.
He crosses to her bedside and leans in, careful of the lines, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

Jo closes her eyes briefly.
It costs her to stay upright.

When she opens them again, she studies his face.
A question is already there.

LINK
(soft, steady)
Hi.

She tries to answer.

JO
(hoarse, barely audible)
Hi.

The sound tears on the way out.
He sees it.

LINK
(voice low)
Don’t force it.
Use the phone.

He places it within her reach.

Jo nods.
She tries anyway — stubborn, reflexive.

JO
…Are they—

The words fracture into air.
Frustration flickers. Quick, sharp.

She reaches for the phone.
Her fingers move slowly.
Like everything weighs more than it should.

She types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
How are they?

Link doesn’t hesitate.
He sits closer so she doesn’t have to strain.

LINK
They’re okay.

He holds her gaze.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re in the NICU.
They’re supported.
(a beat)
They’re both moving forward.

He keeps his tone calm, confident.

Jo searches his face for anything he isn’t saying.

She swallows again. It hurts.
Her chest rises faster.
The monitor ticks up — subtle, but visible.
She sees it.
She forces her breathing slower.

Link notices.

LINK (CONT'D)
Hey.
They’re stable.
(a beat)
You don't need to worry right now.

That steadies her.

She types again.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
What kind of support?

Doctor brain.
Link chooses his words carefully.

LINK
One’s on CPAP.
The other’s still on the ventilator.

He leans in slightly.

LINK (CONT’D)
No escalation.
They’re stable and improving.

He doesn’t rush it. He lets her absorb.

Her eyes close for one second, calculating.

Prematurity.
Respiratory distress.
Time.

She opens them again.
Types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
Have you held them?

LINK
I have.

A softer breath from him.

LINK (CONT’D)
Skin-to-skin with one.

That’s when it hits.

Not the ventilator.
Not the CPAP.
Skin-to-skin.

They are real.
They are breathing.
And she is not there.

Her composure fractures, silently.

Her eyes fill instantly.
A tear slips sideways into her hair.

The monitor climbs again – a small warning tone.
She inhales carefully.

She types again.
Slower now.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
What about the other one?

LINK
We’re waiting for her to settle a little more.
She’s getting there.

Jo swallows.
It hurts.

A beat.

JO
(hoarse, almost to herself)
She… shouldn’t have to do that alone.

It costs her to say it.
Her voice almost gives out on “alone.”

Link’s hand tightens around hers.

LINK
She’s not.
(a beat)
The whole hospital checks on them when I’m not there.
And I go back and forth.
(a beat)
They’re not alone.

That steadies her, but not fully.
It doesn’t erase the ache.

Her eyes shine again.

She types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
I need to be there.

Her hand trembles slightly after she finishes.
Link leans closer.

LINK
You will be.
(a beat)
We just need your heart strong enough to get you there.

He wipes the tear from her cheek.

After a long moment, she types again.
Slower.
Heavier.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
I want to see them now.

She tries to say it too.

JO
(hoarse)
Now.

Just one word.

It scrapes.
He doesn’t shut her down.

He nods.

LINK
I know.
(a beat)
And we’re going to get you there.

He squeezes her hand gently.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
We just have to do it in a way that keeps you safe.

Jo holds his gaze.
It costs her — accepting that.

She sinks back slightly into the pillow.

Exhaustion crashes in hard after the emotional spike.

Her hand lowers.
Her eyes close.
Not asleep.
Just overwhelmed.

The sedation is gone.
The buffer is gone.

Everything is sharp now.

After a moment, she opens her eyes again.
Clear.
Present.

And fully aware of the distance.

FADE OUT.

22.7.17 – DAY FOUR – Jo Asks to See the Babies

INT. ICU ROOM — MORNING

The room is brighter now.

Jo is still propped upright in her bed.
The effort shows.

Iris checks the dressing near the Impella insertion site, then the C-section incision. 

IRIS
Good.
It’s healing well.
 
Jo nods faintly.

IRIS (CONT’D)
How are you feeling?

Jo opens her mouth again.
Nothing comes out. 
Her throat burns.

She shakes her head.
Defeated.

Link answers for her.

LINK
She wants to see the babies.

Iris hesitates, just briefly.

Before she can answer, Ndugu enters.

Iris glances toward him.
Familiar, but professional.
A quiet connection in the making.

NDUGU
Morning.

IRIS
Morning.

She gives him a quick update and steps aside.

Ndugu moves closer so Jo doesn’t have to strain to look at him.

He meets her eyes.

NDUGU
Hey.

Jo looks at him, exhausted. Pleading. 
No small talk.

JO
(hoarse, low)
When can I see them?

It scrapes coming out.

Ndugu exhales slowly.

He already knows this moment was coming.

NDUGU
I’m really sorry, Jo.
(a beat)
It’s too soon.

Silence.

Jo blinks. 
Her breathing picks up slightly.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Right now, your heart is still relying on the pump.

He gestures lightly toward the monitor.

The numbers climb a few beats, reacting to the conversation.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Even sitting up is pushing it.
(a beat)
We can't move you out of this room yet.

Jo’s jaw tightens.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
The NICU means sitting upright. Movement. Stimulation.
(a beat)
Your heart can’t handle that yet.

A beat.
Jo swallows.
Her throat burns.

JO
(hoarse, controlled)
They… need me.

The words scrape.
Ndugu doesn’t soften.

NDUGU
They need you to get through this first.
 
Jo's gaze flicks to Link.

Link leans closer to her.

LINK
We’ll get you there.
Soon.

Something sharp flickers behind her exhaustion.

She holds his gaze, then turns away.
Presses her eyes shut.
Tears slip quietly down her cheeks.

Link absorbs it.
Ndugu keeps his tone calm.

NDUGU
This isn’t about keeping you from them.

A beat.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
It’s about getting you strong enough to stay with them.

Jo opens her eyes briefly. Glassy.
She's breathing through the ache in her throat.

JO
(hoarse, low)
How long?

NDUGU
Hard to say.
Maybe a few days.
If things go the way we want.

Honest. Contained.

Jo sinks slightly deeper into the pillow.
The energy drains out of her.

Then another thought surfaces.
Fragile.

JO
(hoarse, low)
I wanted to breastfeed.

The words come out fragile.

Jo looks between them.

JO (CONT’D)
(hoarse, low)
I’m gonna miss the window.

Iris steps forward slightly.
Very softly.

IRIS
Jo…
(soft)
They're still too young for that.

Jo registers it. 
They are too small to latch yet.

Iris continues, steady.

IRIS (CONT’D)
But we can try a short pumping session.
See how you tolerate it.
Short. Monitored.

Ndugu nods.

NDUGU
If your numbers stay stable, we can build from there. 

Iris adds gently.
 
IRIS
That'll help protect your supply.
(a beat, soft)
Even if nothing comes out yet, it still helps.

Jo swallows.

IRIS (CONT'D)
And once they're ready—
and you’re stronger—you can transition to nursing. 

NDUGU
Nursing takes a lot out of the body.
And it means sitting upright, holding the baby against your chest.
(a beat)
We're not ready for that yet.

A beat.

Jo turns her face slightly away.
Pulling inward.

LINK
Hey.

She doesn’t look back.

LINK (CONT'D)
You still get to feed them.

Jo finally turns toward him.
Eyes glassy. 

JO
(hoarse, low)
That’s not the same.

The monitor ticks up again.
A quiet warning tone.

Ndugu lets the silence settle.

NDUGU
(gently)
Your job right now is to heal.

Jo exhales.
Shaky.

She nods. Desperately. 
Not agreement.
Exhaustion.

Her shoulders sink back into the pillows.
The fight drains out of her.

Iris glances at the chart, then at Jo.

IRIS
Any breast tenderness yet?

Jo shifts slightly.
Her chest aches.

She shakes her head faintly.

A beat.

Iris rests a hand on Jo's arm. 

IRIS (CONT’D)
We’ll take it step by step.
(a beat)
I’ll check with the team and come back.

Iris steps out.

Ndugu lingers a moment.

NDUGU
We’ll get you there as soon as we can.

Then he leaves too.

The room quiets.

Machines humming softly.

Link stays beside the bed.

Jo’s eyes are closed now.
Not asleep.
Just spent.

Link studies her.

LINK
I’ll go down later.

A beat.

He squeezes her hand.
Jo doesn’t answer.
But a tear slides quietly toward her hairline.
Too tired to wipe it away.

Link sees it.
And stays beside her. 

The distance is small.
But it’s there.

FADE OUT.

22.7.18 – DAY FOUR – Link Checks on the Twins

INT. NICU — MIDDAY

Low light.
Muted alarms.
That careful hush that never fully becomes quiet.

Link steps in from the corridor.
He approaches the nurses’ station.

LINK
Hey.
 
NURSE
Hi, Dr. Lincoln.

LINK
How did they do while I was gone?

The nurse pulls up the chart.
Professional. Grounded.

NURSE
Overall last night was okay.
And they’ve had a lot of visitors this morning.

LINK
Really?

NURSE
They’ve got quite the fan club.

Link almost smiles.

The nurse refocuses on the chart.

Link stays still, listening.

NURSE (CONT’D)
So Baby A still does well on CPAP.
If today stays stable, we may be able to remove it tomorrow.

A small win.
Link lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

NURSE
We’ve started her on phototherapy. 
Her bilirubin levels were climbing.

Link takes it in.

LINK
That’s common, right?

NURSE
Very. Even in full-term babies.
It usually resolves in a few days.

NURSE (CONT’D)
Baby B’s been improving since we stepped her down from HFOV to the vent.
Her oxygen needs are coming down a bit.
(a beat)
She’s still sedated, but we’ve been able to ease it slightly.
 
She hesitates.

NURSE (CONT’D)
She had a brief desaturation earlier this morning.

Link stiffens slightly.

LINK
What happened?

NURSE
Her O2 sat dipped briefly.

Link’s eyes sharpen.

LINK
Why didn’t you call me right away?

The nurse remains calm.
Used to this reaction.

NURSE
She settled immediately.
Her saturation came right back up.

A beat.

NURSE (CONT’D)
Dr. Bailey was with them the whole time.
She's the one who made the call not to page you.
(a beat)
There wasn't any reason to.
It resolved right away.

Link absorbs that.

LINK
I thought the medication was working. 

NURSE
It is.
We’re still seeing some response to the PDA.

A beat. 

She softens, just slightly. 

NURSE (CONT’D)
We’re keeping a close eye on her.
(a beat)
That can happen at this stage.
What matters is how quickly they recover.

Link is still tense.
Then exhales.

LINK
Are they gaining weight?

NURSE
Baby A’s weight is starting to stabilize.
Baby B’s is still trending down a little —
but less than before.

Link nods. A bit overwhelmed by the information.
 
NURSE (CONT’D)
They’ve both been tolerating their feeds well so far.

LINK
Okay…

A beat.

She shifts.

NURSE
How is Dr. Wilson, if I may ask?

That lands.

LINK
It’s really hard on her.
Not being able to see them.

The nurse softens.

NURSE
Sometimes seeing photos helps.
It gives moms something to hold onto.

Link hesitates.

LINK
I’m worried it might do more harm than good.

She considers that.

NURSE
Or it might help her feel closer.
For some mothers, it can help with bonding
and even with milk production.
If that’s something she wants.

Link looks toward the incubators.
Thinking.

LINK
Yeah…
(a beat)
I’m worried it might overwhelm her.
Seeing them so tiny, with all the vents, the lines.

The nurse nods. No argument.

NURSE
That’s okay.
You know her best.
(a beat)
She’s been through a lot.

Link nods.
Quietly gathering himself.

LINK
I’m going to say good morning.
 
She nods and returns to her work.

Link moves toward the incubators.
Stops at the first.
Leans in slightly.

LINK
(quiet)
Hi, baby.
(a beat)
It’s Daddy.

The baby sleeps.
Monitors blinking softly.

Link watches her.
Smiling despite himself.

LINK (CONT’D)
Mommy’s working really hard to get back to you.

A beat.

He moves to the second incubator.
Same care.
Same gentleness.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey, you.
(a beat)
You’re doing so good.

A quiet smile.

LINK (CONT’D)
Mommy will be here soon.
I promise.

He lingers.
Longer than necessary.

Then he hesitates.
The nurse’s words echo in his head.
Sometimes seeing photos helps.

Slowly, he pulls out his phone.
Careful.
Respectful.

He takes a couple of pictures.
It feels wrong.

But she needs to see them.
Just proof they are here.
Breathing.
Fighting.

Link lowers the phone.
He stays there.
Close.
Where their mother cannot be yet.

Dr. Kasliwal approaches the incubators.

KASLIWAL
Morning.

Link turns.

KASLIWAL
The nurse told me she gave you the update.

Link nods.

LINK
Yeah.
Baby B’s desaturation.

KASLIWAL
It’s easy to focus on the scary part.
But overall, both girls are on the right track.
(a beat)
Focus on that. 

Link nods.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
I heard Jo was extubated.

Link nods.

LINK
Yeah.
This morning.

A small approving nod from her.

KASLIWAL
That’s very good news.

She glances toward the incubators.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
That means we’ll probably have to stop calling them Baby A and Baby B soon.

Link blinks.
The thought lands.
He looks back at the babies.

LINK
We… haven’t talked about that yet.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
She just came out of it this morning and—

He trails off.
The realization settles heavier.

KASLIWAL
Don’t worry.
You’ve had bigger issues to handle.

Link looks down, a flicker of guilt.

LINK
How do you forget your babies don’t even have names yet?

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
That should’ve been the first thing we talked about.

KASLIWAL
Trauma does strange things to the brain.

A gentle shrug.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
It narrows everything down to survival.

She looks at the girls.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
The rest catches up later.

A beat.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Take your time.
(a beat)
They can wait a little longer.

Link exhales quietly.

Kasliwal gives the babies one last glance.
Then heads back toward the NICU station.
 
Link stays.
One hand resting lightly against one incubator.

Watching them.
Thinking.
Still here.

FADE OUT.

22.7.19 – DAY FOUR – Jo and Link Talk About the Babies’ Names

INT. ICU ROOM — AFTERNOON

Machines hum in their steady, indifferent rhythm.

Jo lies in bed, oxygen tubing beneath her nose.
She’s crying.
Not loud.
But not quiet either.
Tears run down her temples unchecked, soaking into the pillow.

Her breathing is uneven, hitching out of rhythm with the steady monitors beside her.

Iris stands at the bedside.
One hand on the rail.
The other brushing Jo’s arm, grounding. Ineffective.

The door opens.
Link steps in.

He takes it in instantly.
Jo.
The tears.
The sound she’s making — breathless, uncontained.

He and Iris lock eyes.

LINK
(urgent, already moving)
What happened?

IRIS
(soft, apologetic)
I asked her about the babies’ names and she—

That’s all it takes.
Link nods to her, the kind of nod that says “I’ve got this”.

Iris steps back as he reaches the bed.

LINK
Hey.
Hey, hey.

Jo turns toward his voice.
Relief hits, and with it, a fresh wave of tears. 
Louder now. Less contained.

JO
(hoarse, trying)
I—

The word breaks apart.
She shakes her head, frustrated with herself.

Link climbs carefully onto the bed beside her, awkward with the sling.

He pulls her toward him.
She presses closer immediately, shaking.

LINK
It’s okay.
I’m here.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
Talk to me.

She tries. Fails.

Her breathing spikes.
Iris glances at the monitor. The numbers climbing. 
She looks back to Link. 

A silent warning.
Link understands instantly.

He reaches across his chest and unfastens the sling.
The movement costs him. A sharp intake of breath.
He ignores it.
Sets the sling aside.

Then he climbs fully into the bed, careful of the lines.
Both arms around her now.

Jo collapses into him instantly, face pressed to his chest.

The crying comes harder.
Not dramatic.
Just raw.
Like something inside her finally gives.

Iris quietly steps toward the door.

IRIS
(to Link, gentle)
I’ll be right outside.

Link nods.

The door closes softly.

Link holds Jo tighter.

LINK
I’m here.

Her breathing stutters, then slowly begins to follow his.
Not calm.
But steadier.
Held.

JO
(hoarse, through tears)
They—
(tries again)
They don’t even have names.

Link stills.

JO (CONT’D)
They’re in there…

Her breath catches.

JO (CONT’D)
All alone.

Her voice cracks.

JO (CONT’D)
And they don’t even have names.

Link tightens his hold.

LINK
Hey.

He gently pulls back just enough to look at her.

LINK (CONT’D)
I didn’t want to name them without you.

She stares at him through tears.

JO
It’s like they’re not real yet.

Link presses his forehead to hers.

LINK
They are.

Jo swallows.
Still crying.

JO
(voice cracking)
We never even agreed on the names.

LINK
I know.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
We can choose right now.

Jo shakes her head faintly.

LINK (CONT’D)
I love both names you wanted.

She stares at him.

JO
You didn’t.

LINK
I do now.

A beat.

He chooses his words carefully.

LINK (CONT’D)
I think I was arguing just to argue.
(a beat)
Because it still felt… hypothetical.

He exhales softly.

LINK (CONT’D)
Now they’re here.
(a beat)
And you’re here.
(another beat)
None of that matters to me anymore.

Jo studies his face.

JO 
Are you sure?

LINK
Yeah. 
Hattie and Peyton. 

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
I love them.
(softer)
And I should’ve told you that sooner.

Jo’s eyes fill again.

JO
You’re just saying this so I stop crying…

He almost smiles.
Almost.

LINK
No.

Jo exhales shakily.
More tears.

Link pulls her closer.
Holding her tighter.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’ll name them when you see them.
(a beat)
I want you to have this.
(a beat)
They can wait a little longer.

She stiffens, then breaks again.
Link closes his eyes briefly.

Silence.
Just the machines humming.

Then Link hesitates.

LINK (CONT'D)
I… brought something.

Jo barely looks up.

LINK (CONT’D)
Pictures.

A beat.

He studies her face.
Unsure.

LINK (CONT’D)
Do you want to see them?

Her answer is immediate.
Too fast.
Too desperate.

JO
(whisper)
Yes.

Link doesn’t move.
His thumb rests on the phone screen.
He hesitates.
He knows what this will do.

LINK
They’re really tiny.
(a beat)
There are tubes. Wires.

He watches her carefully.

LINK (CONT’D)
I don’t want this to scare you.

Jo looks at him.
Tears still running.

JO
(hoarse)
I work at a hospital. I know.
(a beat)
I want to see them.

That settles it.
Link unlocks the phone.
Slowly.
Turns the screen toward her.

LINK
Okay.

Jo looks.
And freezes.

Two tiny bodies.
Almost swallowed by the incubators.
Wires.
Sensors.
A ventilator tube.

Her breath catches hard in her throat.

Her hand lifts slowly.
Trembling.
She touches the screen like she could reach through it.

JO
(barely getting the words out)
They look so…

Her voice disappears.
The tears come harder now.
Her shoulders shaking.
Her breathing stutters.

The monitor beside the bed ticks upward.
Her body folds forward slightly.
Unable to look away.

Link tightens his hold around her immediately.

LINK
Hey.
He gently tilts the phone away so she can look at him.
Grounding her.

LINK (CONT’D)
I know it looks like a lot.

Jo is still crying.
He keeps his voice steady.
He brushes a tear from her cheek.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re on the right track.
(a beat)
They’re fighters.

Jo looks back at the photo.
Her fingers press lightly against the screen.
Like she’s trying to reach them.

Finally—

JO
(hoarse, barely there)
I should be there.

Link presses his forehead into her hair.

LINK
You will be.
(a beat)
Soon.
(another beat)
Until then, I’ll be there for both of us.

Jo keeps looking at the screen.
Like if she looks away they might disappear.

Link holds her.
Both arms wrapped around her.

Pain pulses through his shoulder.
He ignores it.

Distance would cost more.
He stays.
Holding her.

FADE OUT.

22.7.20 – DAY FOUR – Ndugu Decides To Increase Support

INT. ICU — LATE AFTERNOON

The light has shifted.

Longer shadows now stretch across the room.
The ICU feels slower now. Heavier.

Jo lies propped slightly upright in the bed, oxygen tubing beneath her nose.

Her eyes are barely open.
Disoriented.
Like she’s still fighting her way back.

Link sits beside her.
Watching.
He notices the moment she wakes.

LINK
Hey.

Jo blinks slowly.
Trying to focus.

Her voice is barely there.

JO
Hey…
It scrapes.

She swallows, wincing.

JO
(hoarse, low)
How long did I sleep?

LINK
A couple of hours.
(a beat)
Which is good.

Jo nods faintly.
Still waking up.

Link angles his phone so she doesn’t have to move.
On the screen.

Luna.
Grinning. Hair a mess.
Jo’s eyes soften immediately.

LINK
My mom sent pictures.

He swipes.
Scout appears.
Serious. Holding something he clearly doesn’t care about.

Jo stares at the screen.
A faint breath escapes her.
Almost a laugh.
But it dies quickly.
Too much effort.

LINK (CONT’D)
Luna’s insisting on packing her own hospital bag.

Jo blinks.

JO
Bag?

LINK
For visiting.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
She put one shoe in it.

Another swipe.

LINK (CONT’D)
Her spare bunny.
To help you sleep.

Another.

LINK (CONT’D)
Her whole wooden toy food set.
(a small beat)
Because apparently hospital food is no good for Mommy.
 
Jo closes her eyes briefly.
A faint ghost of a smile.
Then exhaustion creeps back in.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
They ask about you all the time.

Jo nods faintly.
Her hand moves slightly on the sheet.

JO
I miss them.

Link nods.

LINK
I know.

A quiet moment settles.

Then the door opens.
Ndugu enters.
Ben just behind him.

They both take in the room: Jo’s color, her breathing.
Ndugu steps closer.

NDUGU
How’s the voice?

JO
(hoarse, but clearer)
Still… rough.

She swallows. The effort alone leaves her slightly breathless.
She stills, annoyed at herself.

LINK
She just woke up.
Slept most of the afternoon.

Ndugu nods.

NDUGU
That’s expected.

Ben glances toward the tray.

BEN
Have you been able to eat?

Jo gives the smallest shake of her head.

LINK
Liquid hospital food isn’t exactly… appealing.

A faint attempt at humor.
It doesn’t quite land.

A beat.

The doctors exchange a brief look.

Subtle.
But enough.

Jo notices.
Even half-asleep.

JO
(hoarse)
Just say it.

Not fear.
Recognition.

Ndugu steps closer to the bed.

LINK
(quick, worried)
What’s wrong?

NDUGU
Nothing’s wrong.
(a small beat, then to Jo)
But your heart isn’t recovering as quickly as we hoped.

Link straightens immediately.

LINK
(worried, contained)
What do you mean?

Ndugu chooses his words carefully.

NDUGU
Right now the Impella CP is keeping things stable.
(a beat)
But it’s not unloading her heart enough to let the muscle recover.

Link exhales slowly.
Understanding.

Silence.

The monitors continue their steady rhythm.

Jo stares ahead.
Processing.

Link reaches for her hand.
Grounds it.

She doesn’t react at first.
Then, slowly, her fingers close around his.

LINK
So what’s the next step?

NDUGU
We escalate support.
(a beat)
To an Impella 5.5.

Jo closes her eyes briefly.

JO
Another surgery.

NDUGU
Yes.
Placed through the axillary artery.
(a beat, soft)
It provides stronger support.
Takes more of the workload off your heart.

LINK
And that helps her recover faster.

NDUGU
That’s the goal.

Ben steps slightly closer.

BEN
It should help you tolerate more.
Sit up longer.

A beat.
 
BEN (CONT’D)
And get you closer to them.

That lands.

Jo’s eyes open again.

She looks at Link.
His jaw tightens.
Fear flickers across his face.

LINK
(quiet, shaken)
We’ve been here before.
(a beat)
We almost lost her last time.
 
Ndugu doesn’t rush in.
Lets the weight sit.

NDUGU
This isn’t crisis surgery.
She’s stable.
(a beat)
But waiting carries risk too.

Jo and Link hold each other’s gaze.
Long.
Quiet.

Jo tightens her grip around his hand.
Weak.
But certain.

JO
(hoarse)
I don’t want to lose any more time.

Link searches her face.
Exhales.
Then nods.

LINK
Okay.

Ndugu nods once.

NDUGU
We’ll schedule it for tomorrow morning.

Ben gives Jo a reassuring glance.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
This isn’t failure.
(a beat)
It’s how we move forward.

Jo nods faintly.
Link nods too, holding it together for her. 

Ndugu and Ben step out quietly.

The room settles again.

Jo sinks deeper into the pillow.
Her eyes already closing.
Exhaustion taking over again.

Link leans forward.
Presses his forehead gently to hers.

LINK
I love you.

Jo nods faintly.
Half-asleep already.
Still holding his hand.

FADE OUT.

22.7.21 – DAY FOUR – Link Holds Jo to Sleep

INT. ICU — EVENING — LATER

The room is dim now.
Lights lowered. Curtains half-drawn.

The steady hum of machines fills the space —
monitors, oxygen, the soft mechanical whisper of the Impella.

Jo lies on her side as much as the lines allow.

Link is in the bed with her, carefully arranged around tubing and leads.
Both arms around her.

She’s quiet now.
Not asleep yet, just emptied.
Her breathing is shallow but even, warming against his chest.

Link presses a soft kiss into her hair.
A long moment passes.

JO
(soft, barely there)
Your shoulder.

Link stiffens slightly, then relaxes.

LINK
What about it?

She shifts just enough to look at him.
Heavy eyes.
Still sharp.

JO
You took the sling off.

Not accusing.
Just noticing.

LINK
Yeah.
(a beat)
We needed a break from each other.

A faint attempt at lightness.
It barely lands.

JO
You weren’t supposed to take it off.
Not for a month.

He exhales, honest, gentle.
No denial.

LINK
I know.
But I can’t really do any of this one-armed.

He presses another kiss into her hair.
She watches him.

JO
Does it hurt?

He considers.

LINK
Mostly it just feels strange.
Like my arm forgot it’s allowed to exist.

That almost gets a breath of a smile from her.

She studies him.
Then lets it go.
Her forehead drifts back to his chest.

JO
You should go to PT.
(a beat)
I don’t want you messing up your recovery.

LINK
I will.
(a beat)
I promise.

He tightens his hold just slightly.

She nods, accepting that.

Her eyes drift closed again.
Another long stretch of quiet.
The machines fill the space.

JO
(soft, unfocused)
I should try pumping again.

Link’s hand stills against her back.
He understands immediately what that means.

LINK
How did it go earlier? 
You didn't say.

She barely shakes her head.

JO
(hoarse, sad)
Not even a drop of colostrum.

The fear is quiet.
But real.

Link shifts just enough to look at her.
Gentle. Steady.

LINK
And we’ll keep trying.

His thumb brushes her arm.
Grounding.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re not giving up on it.
(a beat)
But right now, you need to rest before the surgery.
(a softer beat)
That’s what gets you back to them.

She holds his gaze for a second.
Searching.
She nods. Barely.

Then—
She breaks.
Her body sinks further into him.

Another long beat.
Just her uneven, breaking breaths.
He holds her. 

LINK (CONT'D)
I’m here.

She settles a little.

JO
(fighting the tears, quiet)
I am scared.
About tomorrow.

Link doesn’t rush the answer.

LINK
I know.
(a beat)
But it’s not like last time.

He says it carefully.
Part reassurance.
Part belief he’s choosing.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re stable.
And Ndugu does this all the time.

She swallows.

JO
What if—

LINK
(gently, immediate)
Hey. 

He shifts slightly, grounding her again.

LINK (CONT’D)
No what-ifs.
(a beat)
I’ve got you.
(another beat, softer)
They’ve got you.
I trust them. 

She watches him. 
Still fragile.
Still holding on. 

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ll go with you as far as they let me.

That lands.

Her eyes fill.
But she doesn’t cry this time.
Just softens.

LINK (CONT’D)
This is how we move forward. 

Her body melts further into his.
The last tension leaves her shoulders.
She looks at him.
Fading.

JO
I want to hear about them…
(a breath)
…and the kids.
Before I go in.

LINK
You will. 
(a beat)
I’ll go see them first thing.
And I’ll call my mom.

They lean in as close as the tubing allows.
Foreheads touching.
A soft kiss. 
More promise than motion.

LINK (CONT'D)
I love you so much.

JO
(eyes filling)
I love you.

She exhales, long, slow.
Sleep finally takes her.

Link doesn’t move.
Even as his own exhaustion creeps in.
He stays awake, chin resting lightly against her hair.

Listening to the machines.
Feeling the mechanical hum beneath his ribs.

Holding her.
Waiting for morning.
 
FADE OUT.

22.7.22 – DAY FIVE – Jo is Taken to Surgery

INT. ICU ROOM — EARLY MORNING

The room is already in motion.
Jo lies propped slightly upright. Oxygen in place.

Her face is composed.
But her eyes track everything.
A nurse checks the IV lines.
Another secures tubing with practiced hands.

The monitor hum is steady.
Too steady for how fast her mind is racing.

Dr. Ndugu stands at the foot of the bed.
Ben beside him, scanning the monitors.

NDUGU
Alright, Jo.
(a beat)
We’re going to start prepping you.

She swallows.

The words come too fast.

JO
(her voice unsteady)
Where’s Link?

Ben answers gently, before anyone else can.

BEN
He went to check on the twins.
(a beat)
I'm sure he’ll be back before we move you.

Jo’s jaw tightens.
Not enough.

Ben catches the look on her face.

BEN (CONT’D)
We’ll wait for him.

Ndugu meets her gaze.

NDUGU
You’re okay.
(a beat)
I do this all the time.

Ben rests a hand lightly on her arm.

BEN
We’ve got you.

Jo nods once.

That lands. Just enough.

A nurse adjusts a line.

NURSE
I’ll let Dr Lincoln know we’re getting ready to move.

Jo already has her phone.

Her fingers shake slightly as she types.

TEXT ON SCREEN:
They’re prepping me now.
Where are you?

Send.
Jo stares at the screen.
Waiting for the dots.

Ndugu checks his watch.

NDUGU
We’re going to step out and get ready on our end.
(a beat)
We’ll see you upstairs.

Ben gives Jo a small, reassuring nod.

They leave.
The room feels bigger without them.

NURSE
Okay, Jo.
You’re all set.

Jo nods.
Not okay.
Her eyes stay on the door.

A beat.
The door finally opens.

Link steps in, phone still in his hand.

He sees her face.
Crosses the room immediately.
Takes her hand.

LINK
I’m here.

Relief hits — sharp, physical — then tightens again around fear.

Link leans closer, voice low.

LINK (CONT’D)
I didn’t want to wake you.
(a beat)
I went to the NICU.
And I called the kids.

Jo nods.
Some of the tension leaves her face.
Her eyes soften.

LINK (CONT’D)
Luna and Scout say to give you a big kiss.

Jo’s eyes fill.
She blinks it back.
Hard.

LINK (CONT’D)
And the girls are steady.

He doesn’t add details.
Just what she needs.

Jo nods.
Barely holding.

NURSE
Alright.
Ready to go?

Jo looks at Link, fear plain now.
Her grip tightens around his hand.

Link squeezes back, grounding.

LINK
(low)
I’m right here.

He presses a kiss to her knuckles.
The bed begins to move.

INT. ICU CORRIDOR — CONTINUOUS

The bed is moving.
The wheels hum softly against the floor.

Ceiling lights slide past overhead. One after another.

Jo’s breathing picks up immediately.
Fast. Controlled. Shallow. But slipping.

She isn’t crying.
But her eyes are glassy now — unfocused, fixed somewhere far beyond the ceiling, beyond the hallway.

Her body remembers this corridor.
Last time, there was shouting.
Urgency. Panic.
Air hard to pull in.

No time to explain.
No time to think.
The day everything collapsed.

Her fingers tighten around Link’s hand.

Link walks alongside the bed, matching its pace exactly.
His hand locked in hers.

He remembers it too.
The moment they took her from him.
The sound of her crying fading as the bed vanished around the corner.

The silence after.
Standing there afterward with nothing to do but wait and wonder if he’d see her again.

He feels it press in now, sharp and familiar.
He leans closer, voice low, steady. For both of them.

LINK
I’m right here.

He presses another soft kiss to her knuckles.

Jo swallows.
Her jaw tightens.
She holds herself together but her body betrays her.

A single tear slips free, sliding into her hair.
She doesn’t wipe it away.

Link sees it.
His grip tightens, not to stop her fear, but to stay with it.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He just walks with her.
Hand in hand.
This time, he’s not letting go.

INT. OR — CONTINUOUS

Minutes later.

Bright lights.
Cold air.
That sudden, clinical distance.

They transfer Jo onto the operating table.

Across the room, Ndugu and Ben stand side by side.
Both still. Focused. They give them time.

The moment her back touches the surface, something breaks loose.
Her control slips.
Not panic. Not yet.
Just the end of holding herself together.
Tears spill quietly,
Unchecked.
Not dramatic. Not loud.

JO
(low, voice breaking)
I’m scared.

Link is already closer.
Dressed in scrubs. Surgery cap on.
Like he belongs here.
Except he doesn’t.

His hand tightens around hers. Instinctive.

LINK
I’m here.

Her tears keep coming. Silent. Relentless.

JO
(whispered, breaking)
Please don’t leave yet.

Link leans in. Close.

LINK
I won’t.
(a beat)
Not until you’re asleep.

Ndugu meets Link’s eyes.
A brief nod.
That’s it.
Permission.

Ndugu’s eyes flick once to the monitors.
Ben’s jaw tightens, hands clasped behind his back.

This is not routine for them, even if they’ve done it before.
The weight of this sits heavy, even now.
They’ve been here before.

The anesthesiologist lifts the mask slightly, waiting for the right moment.

Jo’s breathing is shallow now. Too fast.
Link shifts closer, lowering his voice. Steady. Deliberate. For her. For himself.

LINK
Look at me.

Jo's eyes lock onto his like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
Everything else disappears.

LINK (CONT’D)
You’re going to be okay.
(a beat)
And I’ll be right there waiting for you.

A breath.
He gathers himself.

LINK (CONT’D)
And then you’ll get to go and meet our baby girls.
(a beat)
And tell them how hard you fought to get back to them.

She breaks a little more.

LINK (CONT’D)
And then we keep going.
Together.

JO
(through tears)
I love you.

Link swallows hard.

LINK
(emotional)
I love you too.

A beat.

Ndugu steps forward — gentle, apologetic.

NDUGU
Link.
(a beat)
We’re ready.

Link nods.
He understands.
He hates it anyway.

He squeezes Jo’s hand once more.

LINK
I love you so much.

She keeps crying. Silent.

The anesthesiologist steps in.
The mask lowers.

ANESTHESIOLOGIST
Deep breaths for me, Jo.

Jo inhales, shaky.

Then another.

Her wet eyes never leave Link’s.

LINK
I’m right here.

Her grip loosens.
Her breathing slows.
Her eyes flutter, then close.

A beat.

The anesthesiologist looks up.

ANESTHESIOLOGIST
She’s under.

Link doesn’t move.
Not right away.

Jo’s hand is still in his.
Slack now.

No tension left in her fingers.
For a beat, he stays exactly where he is, memorizing her face.

Ndugu waits.
Ben waits.
Then Link looks at them.

LINK
Thank you… for this.

They nod.
A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
(quiet, one last breath)
Bring her back to me.

Ndugu meets his gaze.
He nods.
Ben does too.

Link loosens his grip.
Slow. Careful.

Her fingers slip free.
He steps back.

The distance feels immediate.

The doors open.
His eyes are red. Glassy.

Last time she went through those doors, he almost lost her.

This is supposed to be different.
Controlled.
Planned.
Not an emergency.

He turns once — just once — before the OR becomes a room he’s no longer allowed to enter.

Then he’s alone in the hallway, his hand still remembering the shape of hers.

He exhales.
Not relief.
Not yet.
Just… waiting.

FADE OUT.

22.7.23 – DAY FIVE – Link Waits in the Hallway

INT. HALLWAY — OUTSIDE OR — MORNING

Link waits in the hallway.

People pass through.

A nurse on her way past —
a small nod in his direction.
Soft. Meant.

Another, slower —
a brief touch to his shoulder as she goes.

Teddy, mid-stride.
She slows just enough.

A few quiet words.
He nods.

A look.
Steady. Certain.

Her hand rests briefly on his arm.
Then she moves on.

Webber next.
He stops.

Not long.
Just enough. 

He holds Link’s gaze.

A few quiet words.
Low. Certain.

A hand on his shoulder.
Firm. Grounding.

A small nod.

Then he moves on.

The hallway clears again.

Too quiet now.

A few minutes pass.

Link paces.
Stops.
Turns.
Paces again.
Three steps.
Half turn.
Again.

He drags a hand over his face, trying to steady himself before he loses control.
Trying to push away the memory of last time.

He’s still in scrubs.
Surgical cap gone.

One hand lifts to his shoulder — instinctive.
He rolls it slightly.
Tests it. 

A flicker of pain. 
A wince he doesn’t bother hiding.
He lets it sit.
Doesn’t fight it.

He closes his eyes for a beat.
A breath in.
Then out.
Again. 

A cart rattles past somewhere down the hall.
Muted voices.
A door closing.
Life going on. Unbothered.

There’s nothing for him to do here.
Nothing to fix.
Nothing to protect.
And that’s the worst part.

A voice behind him.

BAILEY (O.S.)
You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.

Link turns.

Bailey stands there.
Arms folded — not sharp.
Just looking after him. Present.

Watching him the way she always does.

Link tries for a smile.
Doesn’t quite get there.

LINK
(quiet)
We’ve been here before.

Bailey doesn’t argue.
She steps closer. Not comforting. Grounding.

BAILEY
They know what they’re doing.
(a beat)
And Ndugu wouldn’t have taken her back if this wasn’t the right move.

Link nods.

He knows that.
It doesn’t help.

A beat.

LINK
(quiet)
She was so scared in there.
(a beat)
So was I.

He swallows.

LINK (CONT’D)
I think she saw it.

Bailey follows his gaze to the OR doors.
Then back to him.

BAILEY
Standing here isn’t helping her.
(a beat)
Or you.

That lands.
Clean.
No padding.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
You should be in the NICU.

Link stills.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I heard they’ve got things happening today.

That hits harder than reassurance ever could.

LINK
Yeah.
(a breath)
Baby A might come off CPAP.
(a beat)
Baby B’s starting a trial.
Maybe skin-to-skin.
 
He says it like he doesn’t trust it yet.

Bailey nods.
She already knows.

BAILEY
That’s good.

A beat.

Her eyes flick to his shoulder.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
And you ditched the sling.

LINK
Yeah.
(a beat)
Jo already had a few thoughts about it.

Bailey almost smiles.
Almost.

BAILEY
Of course she did.
And she’s right.

She lets that sit.
Then softer. Still firm.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
PT is a mandatory stop for you today.
(a beat)
But first— 

She holds his gaze.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
(soft)
Go hold your babies.
They need you today. 

That’s the instruction.

Link looks back at the OR doors.
Once.
Longer than he wants. 

BAILEY (CONT’D)
That’s what she’d want. 

That lands.
Link nods. 
Decision settling.
 
LINK
Please—

His voice catches. 
He clears it.
 
LINK (CONT’D)
Text me the second there’s anything.

Bailey meets his eyes.
Steady.
 
BAILEY
You’ll know the moment I do.

Link nods.

LINK
Thank you.

He turns.
Starts walking. 
Doesn’t look back again. 

As he goes, his hand drifts back to his shoulder.
The pain is sharper now.

He keeps walking anyway.
Toward the NICU.

FADE OUT.

22.7.24 – DAY FIVE – Link Holds His Daughters

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.

22.7.25 – DAY FIVE – Link Goes Back to Jo

INT. ICU HALLWAY — AFTERNOON

Link slows as he reaches Jo’s door.

Ndugu stands just outside, chart in hand.
He looks tired. The kind of tired that follows something going right. Focused. Finished.

NDUGU
She did well.

Link exhales, but doesn’t step closer yet.

LINK
Define well.

Ndugu meets him evenly. Surgeon to surgeon.

NDUGU
The Impella 5.5 is in.
(a beat)
We’re getting good flows.
Her left ventricle is unloading the way we want.

Link nods, tracking every word.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Pressures stabilized quickly.
No arrhythmias.
(a beat)
She woke up enough to follow commands…
so we extubated in PACU.

That lands.

LINK
So she’s breathing on her own again.

NDUGU
With oxygen support for now.

Link nods. 

NDUGU (CONT’D)
She’s exhausted. 
That’s expected.
(a beat)
But her heart's not working as hard anymore.
We’re already seeing the difference.

A small shift in tone. 

NDUGU (CONT’D)
This gives the myocardium a better chance to recover.
That’s what we needed. 

Link finally lets himself breathe.

LINK
Can I see her?
Is she awake?

NDUGU
In and out.
(a beat, soft)
Don’t expect much tonight.

Link manages a faint smile.

LINK
Yeah…
I’ll take that.

Ndugu meets his eyes.

Then, more gently…

NDUGU
She’s going to sleep a lot.
That’s not a setback.
(a beat)
She’s stable.

Simple.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
That’s the win today.

Link nods once.

He reaches out, rests a hand on Ndugu’s shoulder. Brief. Grounding.

LINK
Thank you.

NDUGU
You’re welcome.

Link opens the door.

INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

The room is dim.
Jo lies in bed, pale but peaceful.
No tube. Oxygen cannula in place.

Monitors hum softly.

Link steps inside slowly.
He stops at her bedside.
Just looks at her.
Alive.
Here.
He takes her hand carefully, mindful of lines and IVs.

LINK
(soft)
Hey.

Nothing at first.
Then, a flicker.

Jo’s eyelids flutter.
Not fully awake.
Heavy. Struggling.

She finds him. 

JO
(hoarse, barely there)
…You’re here.

It’s not a question. 

LINK
I am.

Her fingers tighten weakly around his.

JO
It’s… done?

LINK
Yeah.
(a beat)
It’s done.
And everything went well.

She exhales. Shallow.
Relief more than breath.

JO
Okay…

Her eyes try to hold him.
They can’t.
Too heavy.
 
JO
I’m… so tired.

That one lands deeper.
Link softens immediately.

LINK
I know.
(a beat)
You did great.

He presses a soft kiss on her forehead.

LINK
(gentle)
Sleep.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles.
Grounding.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m right here.

Link pulls the chair closer and sits.
He doesn’t let go of her hand.

Her eyes close almost immediately.
No fight left.
Sleep takes her fast.

Link stays still. Watching.
Counting her breathing without meaning to. 
He leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against the edge of the bed.
For a second. Eyes closing. 
Not sleep.
Release.
Watching her again. 
Making sure she’s still breathing. 

Time stretches.

After a while, he reaches for his phone.
Types slowly.

TEXT — LINK (TO MAUREEN):
Everything went well.
Jo’s out. She’s resting.
The babies did so well today.
Tell Scout and Luna I love them. We both do.
I’ll call tomorrow. I promise.

More messages waiting.
He doesn’t open them. Not yet.

He sets the phone down.

He looks back at Jo.
Her chest rises. Falls. Steady.

For now, this is enough.

FADE OUT.

22.7.26 – DAY SIX – Ndugu Talks Link Through Jo’s Condition

INT. ICU ROOM — MORNING

Morning light barely reaches the bed.

Jo sleeps. 
Deep. Heavy.
Unmoved by time.

Monitors hum steadily.

Link rests in the chair next to her. 
A nurse adjusts an IV, checks vitals, then moves on.

Jo doesn’t stir.
The day begins without her.

After a moment, Link notices Ndugu in the hallway.

He rises quietly and steps out of the room, pulling the door almost closed behind him.

INT. ICU HALLWAY — CONTINUOUS

Ndugu stands a few feet away, chart in hand.
Link joins him. 

NDUGU
Everything okay in there?

LINK
You tell me…
(a beat)
She’s been out most of the morning.

A small exhale.

LINK (CONT’D)
…me too, honestly.

Ndugu nods.

NDUGU
Good.
(a beat)
You both needed it.
 
Silence settles.

Link exhales, just slightly.

LINK
Any updates?

Ndugu glances at the chart.
Then back at him.

NDUGU
We’ll reassess this afternoon.
(a beat)
But her echo this morning already looks better.

Link nods.
He gets it, but he needs more.

LINK
Better how?

Ndugu shifts and refines the explanation. 

NDUGU
The pressures inside the left ventricle are lower.
It’s not overfilling the way it was.

Link listens, focused.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
We’re seeing a bit more movement in her EF now.

That lands.
Now it’s concrete.
Link exhales.
Deeper.

He glances back toward Jo’s door.

LINK
So the device is finally doing what it’s supposed to.

NDUGU
Exactly.
(a beat)
The CP stabilized her, 
kept her from getting worse…
but it wasn’t unloading the heart enough.

A small shift. More precise now.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
The 5.5 takes more of that pressure off.
Gives the muscle a real chance to recover.

Silence.
That sinks in.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
She still has a long road ahead. 
(a beat)
But this is encouraging.

Link absorbs it.
Doesn’t react immediately.

His eyes flick back to Jo’s door.

Then a breath he didn't know he was holding.

His shoulders drop.
Barely.

Relief.
Careful. Controlled.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
From here, progress should be gradual.
We’ll keep reassessing.

Link nods once, taking that in. 

LINK
Thank you.

NDUGU
Today is about rest. 
No pushing. No rushing.

Ndugu nods, taps his arm, and moves on down the hall.

Link stays there for a second longer, letting it settle.

He looks at the door.
Steadies himself.
Then goes back in.

INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

Jo is still sleeping.
Unaware of the morning.
Unaware of the shift.

Link slips back inside and takes his place at her side.

Same chair.
Same hand.
Different weight now.

He watches her breathe.
Steady.

FADE OUT.

22.7.27 – DAY SIX – Link Gets Updates on the Twins

INT. NICU — MORNING

The NICU hums.

Link stands between the two incubators.

Baby A sleeps under phototherapy.
Tiny eye shields. Blue light washing over her skin.

Baby B rests under CPAP.
Prongs in place.
Breathing uneven but working.

Dr. Kasliwal joins him, chart open, glancing between the monitors and her notes before speaking.

KASLIWAL
So yesterday was a big step for both of them.
(a beat)
Today is where we see how it holds.

They move to Baby A.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We paused phototherapy again this morning.

Link looks up, already bracing.

LINK
And?

KASLIWAL
Her bilirubin climbed back up.

She lets that land.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Not dangerously.
But it's consistent.
(a beat)
It rebounds every time we pause.

Link exhales slowly.

LINK
So we keep her under.

KASLIWAL
For now, yes.
(softer)
But I’m not worried yet.
(a beat)
Sometimes it just takes a little more time for the liver to catch up.

Link absorbs that. Still worried.
His medical training doesn’t help him make sense of this.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Her weight is starting to come up.

That shifts something.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Slow.
But the curve finally reversed.

Link looks back at Baby A.
The light.
The eye shields.

Progress that doesn’t look like it.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
If we look at the big picture,
I'd say it's encouraging.

Link holds onto that.

Kasliwal moves to Baby B.

Different energy.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Baby B had a couple of brief apnea spells overnight.
With some desaturations.

Link stiffens.

LINK
I thought she was doing better.

Kasliwal doesn’t contradict.
She reframes.

KASLIWAL
She is.
(a beat)
But “better” at this stage still includes moments like that.

Link watches Baby B more closely.
He can't read this like a case.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
She’s also working against a little more than her sister.

LINK
Because of the PDA.

KASLIWAL
And the ASD.
(a beat)
Her circulation isn't as efficient.
Her lungs still carry more of the load.

Link tracks every breath.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
That’s what you’re seeing in the dips.
(a beat)
She pauses. Desaturates.
Then she brings herself back.
The support is helping her through those moments.

LINK
I thought the meds would help more by now.

KASLIWAL
They are.
(a beat)
Just not all at once.

LINK
Was it too soon to move her to CPAP?

KASLIWAL
No.

Firm. Clear.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’re seeing longer stretches where she does the work herself.
(a beat)
That’s the direction we want.

Silence settles.
Machines. Breath. Light.

LINK
So why does it feel like a step back?

KASLIWAL
It’s not.
(a beat)
It’s what progress looks like here.

That lands.
She shifts slightly.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
(softer)
Her weight is coming up too.
(a beat)
We like seeing that.

Link nods.
Adjusting.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Nothing today changes our course.
(a beat)
We’ll keep a closer eye on her.

That stays.

Link exhales.

Not relief.
Not fear.
Something steadier.

A quiet beat.

He reaches into the incubator.
Baby B’s fingers curl around his.
He holds that.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.
He checks it.

TEXT — MAUREEN:
Can we call now?
We’re about to head out.

Link hesitates for half a second.
He glances between the two incubators.

Two different rhythms.
Two different trajectories.
Same direction.

LINK
Would you excuse me?
I promised I’d call my kids.

KASLIWAL
Of course.

Link lingers one beat longer.
Then he steps away.

FADE OUT.

22.7.28 – DAY SIX – Link Calls Home

INT. NICU HALLWAY — CONTINUOUS

Link stops by the large window overlooking the NICU.
He pulls out his phone. Calls his mother. 

The screen fills with Maureen, phone in hand.
Behind her: coats on chairs, shoes by the door. 
Mid-departure chaos.

Link looks tired. Running on fumes.

LINK
(quiet)
Hey, Mom.

MAUREEN
Hi!

ERIC (O.S.)
Hi, son!

Luna is in Maureen’s arms. 

Link softens immediately.

LINK
Hey, Luna bear. 

No response.
 
LINK (CONT'D)
How are you guys?
Where’s Scout?

MAUREEN
Amelia picked him up this morning.
It’s her days with him. 

It takes a second to land.
 
LINK
Oh.
Right.
(a beat)
I don’t even know what day it is anymore.
Is it Saturday already?

He rubs his face briefly.

MAUREEN
Yeah.
(a small breath)
So it’s just us and Luna today.
 
Link nods faintly. Steps closer to the glass.

LINK
You guys heading out?

MAUREEN
Yeah.
We're going to the trampoline park.
(a beat)
If everyone cooperates.

She tries to keep it light.
It doesn’t quite land.

Link catches it. 

LINK
(to Luna, softer)
Hey, Bunny.

Still no response.

Luna turns her body away from the screen.
Closes off.

MAUREEN
She’s been having a hard morning.
(a beat)
Honestly… we all have.

That lands.
A beat.

MAUREEN (CONT'D)
How are my little angels?

LINK
They’re okay.
Slowly getting there.

Maureen nods toward the NICU behind Link.

MAUREEN
That’s where they are?

LINK
Yeah. 
That’s the NICU.

He turns the phone slightly, trying to catch Luna’s attention.

LINK (CONT’D)
You want to see your sisters, Luna?

Behind the glass, the NICU glows.
Incubators. Soft light. Steady machines.

LINK (CONT’D)
(pointing)
They’re right there.

Luna glances.
Just for a second.
Then she turns away harder.

Maureen smooths it over.

MAUREEN
She’s… not there yet.

Link nods.
Understands.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Someone’s being a little fussy today.

That word lands.
Link’s smile softens immediately.

LINK
(soft)
Hey, Luna.
Look at me.

Instead, she slips out of Maureen’s arms, straight into Eric’s.

He catches her easily.
No fuss.

ERIC
Hey, monkey.

She buries her face into his shoulder.

MAUREEN
She’s a bit lost without Scout. 
(lower)
She’s been asking for you and Jo…

Link swallows.

LINK
Hey, Bunny.

Eric adjusts Luna slightly, grounding her.

ERIC
You wanted to talk to Daddy, remember?

Luna peeks out.
Eyes sharp now.

LUNA
I want Mommy.

It's immediate.
Unfiltered. Final.

It knocks something loose in him.

LINK
I know.
I know you do, baby.

LUNA
I don’t want to see the babies.
I want Mommy now.

Her voice rises.
Her breathing quickens.

LINK
Mommy’s resting, sweetheart.
She’s sleeping.

LUNA
I don’t want her to sleep!

The words break, loud, raw.
She folds in on herself.

Eric doesn’t hush her. He just steadies her.

ERIC
Okay.
We’re not yelling.

Luna turns her face away again.

LINK
(steady, gentle)
Luna.
(a beat)
She’ll call you when she wakes up.
I promise.

Luna shakes her head.

LUNA
You already said that.
(a beat)
And she doesn’t.

That hits.
Clean.
 
Link closes his eyes for half a second.
That one lands deeper.

LINK
I know… 
She just needs a little more time to feel better.
 
Luna doesn’t answer.
She presses fully into Eric’s chest.

Eric rubs slow circles on her back.

MAUREEN
Okay.
We’re going to get some air.
Everyone will feel better. 

Link nods, chest tight.
Not convinced.

LINK
We love you.

No response.

Link exhales, slow, controlled.

MAUREEN
We’ll talk later.

LINK
Yeah.

Maureen doesn’t wait for more.

MAUREEN
(to Luna)
Shoes on.
Trampoline park.

Luna suddenly slips out of Eric’s arms and runs toward the kitchen.

LUNA (O.S.)
I don’t want to go!

Maureen sighs and follows her.

She hands the phone to Eric.

MAUREEN (O.S)
Sweetie, we’re going to go.
And we’re going to try to have fun.

Eric looks at Link.
More direct.

ERIC
(to Link)
Call back later. 

LINK
I will.
 
ERIC
We’ve got her.
(a beat)
She misses you.
It’s getting hard.

That lands heavier.

Link nods.
But it sits with him now.

ERIC (CONT’D)
But it’ll settle.

Link nods.
Barely.
 
LINK
Bye, guys.
I’ll check back in later.

The call ends.
Silence.
 
Link lowers the phone.
For a moment, he just stands there.

Then he turns back toward the NICU window.

Inside: 
The incubators glow softly.
Two new lives.
Fragile. Fighting.
 
At home:
One child learning what absence feels like.

Link stands between both worlds.
Unable to be in either fully.

He exhales.
Not relief.
Not release.
Just… holding.

Luna’s voice still echoing in his head.

The weight of it all finally catching up.

Then he turns and walks back into the NICU.

FADE OUT.

22.7.29 – DAY SIX – Link Goes Back to Jo

INT. ICU HALLWAY — AFTERNOON

Link stops just outside Jo’s door.
He doesn’t go in right away.
He presses his thumb briefly against his palm.

One breath.
Then another.

Whatever he’s carrying from the day — the kids, the twins, the guilt — he steadies it.

He straightens.
Opens the door.

INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

Jo is awake.
Propped up slightly, oxygen cannula still in place.

More present now.
Fatigue still clings to her.
Visible in the way she holds herself upright, like it costs something.

Bailey sits beside the bed, mid-conversation.
They both look up.

BAILEY
Well.
Look who’s here.

Jo smiles faintly.
Link exhales. Relief he didn’t know he was holding.

LINK
Am I interrupting?

BAILEY
We were having a very serious conversation.

She taps Jo’s leg lightly.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.

JO
(tired, dry)
Don’t tell Marcus I said that.

Bailey grins and stands.

BAILEY
I’ll leave you two alone.

At the door, Bailey clocks Link properly.

BAILEY (CONT’D)
You good?

Link nods.

Bailey exits.

Silence settles.
The room softens.

Link moves closer and sits on the edge of the bed.

LINK
(soft)
Hey.

JO
Hey.

He looks at her a few long seconds.
Then he leans in.
A long, careful kiss.

She lifts a hand to his face. Slowly. Like even that takes effort.
He leans closer and hugs her.
They stay there a second longer than necessary.
Neither wants to let go.

She exhales against him.
Then they pull back just enough to look at each other.

LINK
How are you feeling?

JO
(soft, honest)
Like I slept through a week.

LINK
You're not wrong.

She smiles faintly. Watches him, grounding herself in him.

A beat.

JO
(soft, eyes glassy)
I love you.

LINK
I love you.

They kiss again.
Gentler this time. Settled.

LINK (CONT’D)
Ndugu says the second pump’s doing its job.
Your morning echo already looked better.

JO
(relieved)
Good.

She shifts, fingers brushing the cannula.

JO (CONT’D)
I can’t wait to lose these.

LINK
(smiles softly)
One thing at a time.

She nods.

A small beat.

JO
(soft)
Have you seen the twins today?

LINK
I was there most of the day while you were sleeping.
(a beat)
They’re both going steady.

She waits.
Needs more.

LINK (CONT’D)
Baby A’s holding her own.
Baby B’s steadier today. On CPAP.

That’s it.
Enough information.
Not too much.

Jo absorbs it.

JO
(weak voice)
That’s good.
(a pause)
Did you talk to the kids?

Link hesitates, just enough for her to notice.

LINK
Yeah.

JO
How are they?

LINK
Scout’s with Amelia.

He stops there.

Jo doesn’t rush him.
Already bracing.

LINK (CONT’D)
Luna’s having a harder time.

Something shifts in Jo’s face.

JO
Harder how?

A beat.

LINK
She is asking for you.
(a beat)
And Scout not being there doesn’t help.

He looks down briefly.

LINK (CONT’D)
My mom's exact words… she's been ‘fussy.’

That word lands wrong.
Jo flinches.

JO
Fussy…

She stops herself.
Tries to breathe through it.

LINK
That’s not how she meant it.
(a beat)
She just meant Luna’s angry.
And it’s hard on everyone.

Jo shakes her head too quickly.
The motion costs her.
She winces faintly.

JO
Of course she’s angry.

And then it hits her.
Hard.
A sob breaking free before she can stop it.

LINK
Hey— hey.
Come here.

He pulls her gently into him, careful of the lines, careful of her.

She cries.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just raw.

Hormones crashing.
Guilt flooding everything at once.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey…
It’s okay.

She tries to steady herself.
Fails.

Another breath.
Another sob.

JO
All Luna knows—

Her voice cracks.

JO (CONT’D)
—is that her mom’s been in a hospital.
For a week.

She presses her face into his chest.

JO (CONT’D)
She hasn’t seen us.

Her grip tightens.

JO (CONT’D)
And all she hears—

She breaks.

JO (CONT’D)
—is that there are two new babies.
(a beat)
And that both her parents are here.
Not with her.

Link holds her tighter.

JO (CONT’D)
So yeah.
(a beat)
Of course she’s angry.
She has every right to be.

She stays there, spent.
The truth heavier now that it’s said.

LINK
I know.

Her breathing stutters.

JO
I’ve been stuck in this bed.
(a beat)
I am not with her.
I am not with them.
I’m just… stuck here.

She lifts her head.
Looks at him, fully broken open now.

JO (CONT’D)
I am failing everyone.

Link doesn’t rush to fix it.
He just holds her.

LINK
You’re not.

A long beat.
He has nothing better than the truth.

JO
(through tears, urgent)
I need to call her.

Link stills for a second.
He knows what that could do to her.
He looks at her. Really looks.

LINK
(gentle)
Are you sure?

A beat.
Not challenging.
Just checking.

JO
Yes. Please.

That’s it.
No hesitation now.

Link nods.
A beat.

LINK
Do you need a minute?

This time she nods.

JO
(fragile)
Yeah.

She leans back against the pillows.
Breathing carefully.

One hand wipes her face.
Then again.

She closes her eyes for a second.
Trying to pull herself together without forcing it.

Link waits.
Says nothing.
Just stays close.

After a moment:

JO (CONT’D)
Okay.

Her voice is small.
Not ready.
But willing.

LINK
(soft)
You’re okay?

JO
Yeah.

A beat.

LINK
I hope they’re back from the park.

He reaches for his phone.
Jo wipes under her eyes once more.
Tries to sit a little straighter.
Immediately regrets it.

Link notices and adjusts the pillow behind her without a word.

His hand comes to rest gently on her thigh.
Grounding.

She nods once.
Bracing.

22.7.30 – DAY SIX – Jo Calls Luna

INT. ICU ROOM — CONTINUOUS

FACETIME CALL.

The screen connects.

LUNA fills it.
She's in Maureen’s arms.
Arms crossed. Jaw set.
Eyes shiny, holding back.

Jo inhales sharply, then steadies.

MAUREEN
(smiling, a little too bright)
Look who it is!

JO
(quiet, fragile)
Hi, Maureen.

Then, softer:

JO (CONT’D)
Hi, Luna-bear.

LUNA
(pleading)
Mommy.

That almost takes Jo under again.
Her fingers tighten in the sheet.

Link’s thumb presses once into her thigh.
She holds.

JO
Hi, my love.
How are you?

Luna doesn’t respond. 
Maureen fills the silence.
She keeps her voice light.

MAUREEN
It’s so good to see you, honey. 
How are you feeling?

JO
Getting better. 

She leaves it there.

A beat.
 
MAUREEN
Someone really missed you today.
(to Luna)
Tell Mommy what we did. 

Luna looks away, sulking. 

Silence.

Jo doesn’t push.

JO
Did you go to the park?

Nothing.
 
MAUREEN
(soft, bridging the distance)
We tried the trampolines.
Even had a big waffle with chocolate.

No reaction.

LINK
(soft, just off-screen)
Hey, Luna.

Luna flicks her eyes toward the phone.
Doesn’t answer.

Jo’s hand tightens slightly around the sheet.
Link’s thumb presses, reassuring.

LUNA
(blurting)
When are you coming home?

Jo swallows.
Doesn’t hesitate.

JO
Soon.
I promise.
But Mommy still needs to heal a bit more.

Luna shakes her head.
Hard.

LUNA
I don’t want to stay with Granny.

Her voice cracks.
She starts to cry. Sharp, angry tears.

Jo doesn’t break.
She can’t.

JO
Soon you’ll be able to come visit me.
And your sisters.

Luna sobs harder.

LUNA
(through tears)
I don’t want sisters.
I want my mommy.

Jo’s jaw tightens.
Maureen tightens her hold and rocks her gently.

MAUREEN
Oh, sweetheart.

Link’s hand presses more firmly into Jo’s leg now.

Luna cries harder — angry, confused.

LUNA
Why does Scout get to be with his mommy
and I don’t?

That lands.
Jo goes very still.

Link feels it hit too.
Jo doesn’t rush an answer.
She chooses her words carefully.

JO
(soft, steady)
Because Mommy isn’t allowed to come home yet. 

Luna shakes her head again.

LUNA
It’s not fair.

Maureen lowers her voice.
Calm, grounding.

MAUREEN
I know, sweetheart.
It feels really unfair.

She presses Luna gently to her chest.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Mommy was very sick.
(a beat)
And when you’re very sick, 
you have to stay at the hospital
so your body can get better.

Jo watches.
Helpless. Grateful. Broken.

LINK
(quiet, gentle)
We love you, Luna.

Luna doesn’t answer.
Turns her face into Maureen’s shoulder.
Refuses to look back.

JO
(soft, barely holding)
I love you so much, Luna-bear.

No response.

MAUREEN
(quietly, to Jo)
I’m going to try a book.
See if that helps.

JO
Okay.

She leans closer to the screen, desperate for one more second.

JO (CONT’D)
Mommy thinks about you all the time. 

Luna doesn’t look back.
 
MAUREEN
We’ll call you back later.
JO
Okay. Yeah.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Say bye to Mommy and Daddy.
 
Luna sobs. 
Maureen looks at Jo and mouths silently:
She’ll be alright.

Link tightens his grip on Jo’s leg as she nods.

JO
Bye, my love.
We love you!

LINK (O.S.)
Bye Luna!

The screen goes black.

BACK TO ICU ROOM

Jo stares at the dark screen.
For a second, nothing happens.

Then her body gives out.
She folds inward.
A sob breaks free. Sharp, startled.

LINK
Hey. Hey.

He’s already moving, pulling her into him.
Instinctive. Careful.

She cries. 
Not loud.
Just wrecked.
Her face pressed into his chest.

JO
(through tears)
We’re messing everything up.
 
Link doesn’t pull back.
He holds her tighter. Not to fix it. To keep her steady.

LINK
We’re not.

She shakes her head, breath hitching.

LINK (CONT’D)
We’re doing the best we can.
(a beat)
Under the worst circumstances.

The words don’t feel like reassurance.
It sounds like something they’re both choosing to believe.

Jo exhales.
Shaky. Emptied.

Then she pulls back just enough to look at him.
Really look.
Her eyes are red. Still wet.

But there’s clarity there now.

JO
You should go home.

Link stares at her. 
He doesn’t answer.
Not because he disagrees.
Because he’s already there.

Link swallows.
His jaw tightens once.

LINK
I know.

That’s it.
No argument.
No justification.
He nods, once, like the decision has finally caught up to him.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft, torn)
But I don't want to leave you.

JO
Luna needs it.
They need it. 

LINK
Are you sure you’ll be okay?

JO
(steady, eyes glassy)
Yes. 

A beat.

She reaches for him again.

JO (CONT’D)
Please.

Link searches her face.
Not panic.
Not guilt.
Choice.
Love.

LINK
(quiet)
…Okay

He pulls her back into him.

This time, it’s not about holding her together.
It’s about letting go. Just for tonight.

They stay like that longer than necessary.
Breathing.
Letting the moment settle.

JO
(hoarse)
I’m a mess.

Link doesn’t answer right away.
Just tightens his hold.

LINK
Yeah.
(a beat)
But a beautiful one.

Jo lets out a breath — half laugh, half cry.

She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t need to.

FADE OUT.

22.7.31 – DAY SIX – Ndugu and Ben Give Medical Updates

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.

22.7.32 – DAY SIX – Jo Breaks Down After Link Leaves

INT. ICU ROOM — NIGHT

The door clicks shut.
The room settles back into its night rhythm.

Monitors steady.
Lights dimmed.

Jo keeps her eyes on the door.
A second too long.
As if it might open again.

It doesn’t.

Silence.
Different now.

She exhales.
Her breath catches.

Once.
Again.

She tries to swallow it down.
Doesn’t work.

Tears come — sudden, unwelcome.

She presses her lips together.
Annoyed at herself. 

Wipes at her face.
More come anyway.

A soft knock.

The door opens.
Iris steps in, already glancing at the monitors, tablet in hand.

IRIS
Hey.
I’m on tonight.

She looks up.
Sees Jo’s face.

Stops. 
Takes it in.
Then steps closer.
Slower now.

IRIS (CONT’D)
Hey.
(a beat)
You okay?

Jo lets out a breath that immediately breaks.

JO
No…

She wipes her face again.
Useless.

Iris sets the tablet down.
Checks the monitor out of habit.
Pulls the chair closer.
Sits.
Grounded.

She doesn’t rush. 
She just waits.

Jo tries to speak.
But can’t.

A long beat.

IRIS
(soft)
It’s okay.

Iris brushes Jo's arm. 

Another beat.

IRIS (CONT’D)
Take your time.

Jo shakes her head.

JO
I don’t even know why—

A breath. 

JO (CONT’D)
I mean, I do—
But it’s like—

She exhales.
Frustrated.

IRIS
Mm.
(a beat, softer now)
You know what this is.

Jo nods.
Eyes closed.
Still crying.

JO
Yeah.

IRIS
Doesn’t make it easier.

JO
No.

IRIS
(gentle)
Hormones are crashing.

Jo lets out a shaky breath.

JO
I didn’t think it would hit this hard.

Iris watches — calm, grounded.
Not alarmed.
Just present.
 
IRIS
Your body’s catching up to everything it just went through.

Silence.

Jo swallows.
Then quieter now.
More vulnerable.
Like she’s saying something she doesn’t want to hear out loud.

Her hand drifts, almost unconsciously, to her chest.

JO
(low, clinical)
I don’t feel anything.

A beat.

She stares at the ceiling.

JO (CONT’D)
What if it’s already too late…

Silence.

Iris doesn’t interrupt.
Lets her get there.

Jo’s voice drops further.
Barely there.

JO (CONT’D)
…and I can’t breastfeed?

There it is.
Barely above a whisper.

Silence.
Iris lets it land.
She leans in just slightly.
Not urgent. Just present.

IRIS
You had a crash delivery.
And major heart surgery.
(a beat)
Your body’s been through a lot.

Another beat.

IRIS (CONT’D)
It can take longer…
(softer now)
You know that.
 
Jo looks at her.
Not convinced.
Not yet.

JO
Or it just… won’t.

A fragile edge.
Iris holds her gaze.

IRIS
We’ll help it.

Simple.
That shifts something.
Not relief.
But something to hold onto.

Jo exhales.
Still shaky.
Still not okay.
But less alone.

JO
I just—

She stops.
Tries again. 

JO (CONT’D)
I don’t want my body to fail at this too.

That lands deeper than anything before.
Iris shakes her head, gently.

IRIS
It’s not failing.
(a beat)
It’s catching up.

Silence settles.
Jo’s breathing begins to slow.
Tears still there.
But softer now.
Less sharp.

Iris reaches for her tablet.
Practical again, but still gentle.

IRIS (CONT’D)
You can try pumping again now.
If you're not too tired.

A beat.

Jo looks at her.

IRIS (CONT’D)
Very gently.
(a beat)
To tell your body it’s time.

IRIS (CONT’D)
Seeing them will help too.

Jo nods.
Small.
Fragile.
But present.

JO
Okay.

IRIS
And if it’s too much—
we stop.
Clear. Safe.

IRIS (CONT’D)
(softer)
But you’re not doing this on your own.

That’s what lands.
Jo nods again. 
Holds onto that. 

IRIS (CONT’D)
I’ll have lactation bring you a pump and stay with you.
 
Jo doesn’t answer.
Just breathes.

Iris stands.
Adjusts a line.
Checks the monitor.

Routine.
Grounding.

IRIS
I’ll let you get some rest. 
(a beat)
You’ve got a big day tomorrow.

Jo manages a small smile.

IRIS (CONT’D)
Let me know if you need anything. 

JO
Thank you.
 
Iris exits.
Jo leans back into the pillows.

Eyes still wet.
But quieter.

The monitors continue their steady rhythm.
This time, the silence holds. 

FADE OUT.

22.7.33 – DAY SIX – Link Finally Comes Home

INT. LINK AND JO’S HOUSE — ENTRYWAY — EVENING

The front door opens quietly.
Link steps inside, a duffel bag slung over his good shoulder.

The house is dim. Lived-in.
Calm in that end-of-day way.

Maureen appears from the kitchen.
Her face brightens when she sees him.

MAUREEN
Hi, honey.

She hugs him.
Link exhales.
Something finally unclenches.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
(soft)
I told her you were coming.

ERIC
Hey, son.

Link nods, still taking it all in.

LINK
Hi, Dad.

They hug.
Maureen reaches for the bag.

MAUREEN
Let me take that.

LINK
I’ve got it—

MAUREEN
You shouldn’t be carrying anything on that shoulder.

LINK
It’s the other shoulder, Mom.
(a beat)
I’m fine.

MAUREEN
Still.
She disappears with it.

MAUREEN (O.S.)
Luna, sweetheart.
Your daddy’s here.

Link turns.
Luna steps out from her small hiding place under the stairs.
Barefoot. Still. Watching him.

LINK
Hey, Bunny.

Nothing.
Her eyes flick to his shoulder.

LUNA
Where’s your sling?

LINK
I took it off.
Don’t need it anymore.

A beat.
She doesn’t move.
Like she’s deciding if it’s safe.
He drops to one knee.

LINK (CONT’D)
Come here.

A beat.

Luna’s face tightens.
She stays where she is.

LUNA
(quiet, guarded)
You came back?

That almost breaks him.

LINK
Yeah.
I really wanted to see you.

She studies his face. Measuring.

LUNA
Are you going to stay with me?

He doesn’t rush it.

LINK
I’m staying tonight, yes.

That’s the crack.
Her face folds — not sobbing, just giving up the fight.
Then she runs.

She crashes into him, arms around his neck, legs clamping tight, like she’s afraid he’ll leave again.

Link catches her easily. Holds her close.

LINK
Hey.
I’ve got you.

She presses her face into his shoulder.
Breathing hard, fists clenched in his shirt.

ERIC
(from behind them, quietly)
She’s been waiting for you.

Link nods, eyes closed.
Luna pulls back just enough to look at him.

LUNA
Is Mommy coming too?

Link doesn’t lie.

LINK
Not yet, baby.
But you’ll come see her soon.

That’s enough.
She buries her face back into his neck.
Doesn’t let go.

Like this is where she’s safe.

FADE OUT.

22.7.34 – DAY SIX – Link Spends Time With Luna Before Bed

INT. JO AND LINK'S APARTMENT — LIVING ROOM — LATER

Crayons everywhere.
Paper spread across the floor.

Luna sits cross-legged, coloring fast.

Link sits nearby, back against the couch. Watching.
Letting himself land.

LINK
What’re you making?

LUNA
A picture.
Of my friends and my teacher.

LINK
And who’s it for?

She doesn’t hesitate.

LUNA
Mommy.

LINK
She’s gonna love it.

Luna pauses, then pushes the paper toward him.

LUNA
Can you write the names?
So Mommy knows who’s who.

LINK
Yeah.
Of course.

He leans in carefully.

Luna watches every movement.

LINK (CONT’D)
Okay…
Who’s that in the middle?

LUNA
Daddy!
That’s my teacher.
Mrs. G.

LINK
Right. Mrs. G.

He writes slowly. Neatly.

LUNA
And that’s Tim.

Link writes it.

LUNA (CONT’D)
And that’s me—
Flynn—
And Sandy.

A beat.
Luna thinks. 

LUNA (CONT’D)
But Sandy said she’s not my friend anymore.

Link doesn’t react too big. Just present.

LINK
Oh yeah?
Why’s that?

LUNA
Because I didn’t want to play with her
and Emily at recess.

Link nods, keeps writing.

LINK
That happens sometimes.
Maybe she felt sad.
But you didn’t do anything wrong.
(trying to find the best words)
And it doesn’t mean she’s not your friend anymore.

Link finishes writing. Slides the paper back to her.

LINK (CONT’D)
There.
Now Mommy’ll know everyone.

Luna studies the drawing.
Then smiles. Small, crooked.

LUNA
They don’t really look like this, Daddy.

Link smiles back.

LINK
Want to make another one?

Luna brightens instantly.

LINK (CONT’D)
We can bring a few of them.
So Mommy can put them up on the wall of her bedroom.

Luna nods, already grabbing another crayon.

A few minutes later.
A new drawing.

LUNA
Here.
This one’s all of us.

She points.

LUNA (CONT’D)
Mommy.
My sisters.
Scout.
Me.
And you.

Link looks at the drawing.
Takes it in a moment longer.

LINK
Yeah.
That’s all of us.

Luna watches him.
Checks that it’s right.

LINK (CONT’D)
It’s perfect.

A beat.

He looks back at her, softer now.

LINK (CONT’D)
Mom’s gonna love this one.

That lands.
A small exhale from Luna.

LINK (CONT’D)
Alright…
Bedtime.
 
Link gathers the drawings into a small stack.
Careful. Intentional.

Luna watches him do it.

LUNA
Don’t lose them.

LINK
I won’t.

He sets them on the counter.

Somewhere safe.
Somewhere visible.

Luna nods, satisfied.

FADE OUT.

22.7.35 – DAY SIX – Link Puts Luna to Bed

INT. JO AND LINK'S APARTMENT — LUNA’S BEDROOM — NIGHT

Link tucks her in.
As he pulls the blanket up, she grabs his hand.

LUNA
Can you stay with me?

LINK
I’m right next door, baby.

She squints at him, checking.

LUNA
Promise?

LINK
Promise.

She nods, settles.
Trusting it.

He reaches for the light.

LUNA 
Daddy?

LINK
Yeah?

LUNA
Tell Mommy…
I’m not mad anymore.

Link swallows.

LINK
I’ll tell her.

He kisses her forehead.

LINK (CONT’D)
Night night.

He turns off the light.

She rolls onto her side.
Her breathing slows.

He watches her a moment.

Something settles in him.

FADE OUT.

22.7.36 – DAY SIX – Link Talks to His Parents

INT. JO AND LINK'S APARTMENT — LIVING ROOM — NIGHT

The house is quiet now.
The kitchen light is off.

A single lamp glows in the living room.

Maureen and Eric sit on opposite ends of the couch, mugs cooling in their hands.
Low voices. End-of-day tired.

Link comes down the stairs.

He looks different. Softer. Spent.
They look up.

MAUREEN
She asleep?

LINK
Yeah.

MAUREEN
That was fast. 

She smiles. Small, knowing. 

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
That’s how I know she needed you. 
Bedtime’s been harder these past few days.

Link nods.

LINK
It went surprisingly smoothly.

That’s all he says. 
It’s enough.
 
Maureen exhales.
Eric nods, slow.

Link sits between them.
Not collapsing, just finally allowing himself to stop moving.

A silence settles.
Comfortable. Earned.

ERIC
How’s Jo?

Link takes a second.
Chooses his words.

LINK
Better.
Still fragile.
But better.

He rubs his palms together.
A nervous habit he hasn’t noticed in years.

MAUREEN
What are the doctors saying?

LINK
The second procedure went well.
The pump’s doing what it’s supposed to do.
(a beat)
Ndugu’s cautiously optimistic.

That word hangs there. Optimistic.
Careful. Earned.

LINK (CONT’D)
If things stay steady…
she might get to see the twins tomorrow.

Maureen’s eyes soften immediately.

MAUREEN
Oh. That’s good.

LINK
Yeah.
That’s been the hardest part for her.
 
A quiet understanding there.

MAUREEN 
I can’t imagine.
 
Another beat.

ERIC
And then what?

LINK
The heart still has to do the work on its own.
So she’s not going anywhere yet.
(a breath)
A few weeks, at least.
Mostly monitoring. Recovery.

ERIC
But out of the ICU?

LINK
Soon.
Hopefully.

Link looks at them.
 
LINK (CONT’D)
Once she’s out of the ICU…
the kids can come.
Short visits. Nothing big.
 
Maureen nods, already planning in her head.

MAUREEN
That’ll mean the world to Luna.
And to Scout too. He’s very attached to her. 

A beat.

ERIC
(quiet, proud)
You and Jo…
(a beat)
You’ve built something good.
It shows…
(quiet, grounded)
And that matters. Especially now.

His voice softens.

Link absorbs it.

LINK
(smiles faintly)
Yeah, but—

He stops. Thinking.

LINK (CONT’D)
Right now…
Wherever I am…
it feels like I’m failing someone.

A beat. 

ERIC
Your kids are tougher than you think.

Maureen smiles.

MAUREEN
And they’re not alone.

She gestures lightly around the room.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
We’re here.
And it hasn’t all been hard.
(a beat)
We’ve had good moments too.
(gentle, knowing)
More than you’d think.

That gets a small laugh out of him.

LINK
I hope so. 

A quiet moment.
Then softer:

LINK (CONT’D)
I don’t think I’ve said thank you enough.
(a beat)
For staying.
For the kids.
For… everything. 

Eric waves it off gently.

ERIC
That’s what family does.

Maureen reaches for Link’s hand. Squeezes.

MAUREEN
There was never another option.

That almost breaks him.
He nods. Swallows.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I can’t wait to meet my granddaughters.

LINK
(soft)
Yeah.

A beat.

MAUREEN
Have you… chosen their names yet?

LINK
Yeah.
We have.

Maureen smiles, then notices he doesn’t say more.

MAUREEN
Aren’t you gonna tell us?

Link doesn’t hesitate.

LINK
When Jo meets them.
She should be the one to say it. 

A beat. That lands.

MAUREEN
Of course.
She’s already missed so much. 

Link nods. Then worry. 

LINK
She’s really fragile emotionally right now.

MAUREEN
She’s been through so much.

A beat. 

He pulls out his phone.

LINK
I’m just going to text her.
Make sure everything’s alright.

He types.

TEXT — LINK (TO JO)
How are you?
Luna’s asleep. She’s okay.
Can’t wait for all of us to be home.
I love you.

He sets the phone face down.

LINK
If Jo and the twins stay stable…
I’ll try to come home every night.

ERIC
Good.
It’ll make things easier for them.
 
Link nods. Leans back.

Another silence. This one is different.

He glances at his phone.
No reply.
He exhales. Half relief, half worry.

Maureen catches it.

MAUREEN
She’s probably sleeping.

LINK
I know.

That doesn't quite settle him. 

He leaves the phone where it is.
For the first time all day, he lets the quiet hold him.

FADE OUT.

22.7.37 – DAY SEVEN – Link Leaves for the Hospital

INT. JO AND LINK’S APARTMENT — KITCHEN / ENTRYWAY

Early morning light filters in, pale and unhurried.

Link stands at the counter, already halfway out the door.

He grabs a piece of toast, takes a quick bite, barely tasting it, chewing as he pulls on his jacket.

Tired but operational.
The kind of tired that has learned how to keep moving.

Maureen moves quietly behind him, folding clean clothes into the small duffel bag. Everything is neat. Intentional.

Link notices.

LINK
(confused, gentle)
When did you have time to do all this?

Maureen barely looks up.

MAUREEN
I don’t sleep much.

She zips the bag, then adds, like it’s nothing.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
You’ll understand when you’re my age.

Link smiles. Soft. Grateful.
He lifts the bag, surprised by its weight.

LINK
I’m coming back tonight.

MAUREEN
I know.

She adjusts the strap anyway.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
But just in case you need it.

She reaches back into the kitchen and adds a small paper bag.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Oh. I almost forgot.
Snacks. Fruit.
I know you hate hospital food.

LINK
Mom.
I work at a hospital.
I eat it every day.

MAUREEN
Exactly.

He smiles again, softer.
As he slings the bag over his shoulder, he winces slightly. His hand comes up, instinctive, rubbing at his shoulder.

Maureen clocks it immediately.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Hey.

He freezes. Caught.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
You need to take care of that arm.

LINK
I am.
I have PT today.

MAUREEN
(firm but kind)
Good.
It’s important.

From the living room, Luna appears, already dressed. She runs straight for him and wraps both arms around his leg. Tight. Final.

LUNA
Don’t go, Daddy.

Link crouches instinctively.

LINK
Hey.
(soft)
I’ll be back tonight.

She tightens her grip.

LINK (CONT’D)
I promise.
No response. Just pressure.

Eric steps in gently, crouching beside them.
He lifts Luna into his arms before Link has to pull away.

She folds into him immediately, face buried in his shoulder.

LUNA
I want to go with you.

LINK
I’ll be home before you know it, okay?

ERIC
We’ve got you.

Link exhales. Just once.
He reaches for the stack of paper. Her drawings.

LINK
I’m bringing these with me.
(to Luna)
I’ll show them to Mommy. And the babies.

Luna looks at the drawings. Then at him. She nods. Barely.

He slips them carefully into the bag.

Maureen leans in slightly.

MAUREEN
I’ll text Amelia.
See if we can get Scout and Luna together today.

LINK
That’d be good.

He kneels in front of Luna, still in Eric’s arms.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’ll call you later, okay?

Another small nod.

Maureen steps closer.

MAUREEN
Kiss Jo and the twins for us.

Link nods. Serious now.

LINK
I will.

At the door, he hesitates, just a fraction, hand resting on the frame, shoulder aching.

Then he straightens and leaves.

The house settles back into its morning quiet.

FADE OUT.

22.7.38 – DAY SEVEN – Link Returns to Jo

INT. ICU ROOM - MORNING

The door opens softly.
Link steps in, bag over his shoulder.

LINK
Hi—

He stops short.
Jo is crying.

Not loud. Not unravelling.
Just steady tears. Like they’ve been there for a while.

Her face is turned slightly away.
One hand keeps wiping at her cheek.

Iris stands nearby, calm.
She’s already said what she could.
But it doesn’t reach her.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey, hey.

He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed. 
His hand settles gently on her arm.
Warm and steady.

LINK (CONT’D)
What’s going on?

Jo exhales, shaky.
She can't speak. 
He turns toward Iris.

IRIS
(soft)
She tried pumping a couple of times overnight.

A beat. 

IRIS (CONT’D)
Not much output yet. 
Her heart rate started climbing each time, so we didn't push it.

Silence.

His face softens. 
His thumb starts brushing slowly along her arm. 
Grounding.

LINK
Hey…

Jo swallows.
She shakes her head.

JO
(raw)
It's not working. 

That’s it.
She looks away.

Her jaw tightens, holding it together, barely.

Iris glances at Link, then back to Jo.

IRIS
You just started overnight. 

Jo nods faintly.
It doesn’t land.

A breath trembles out of her.

She stops.
Swallows hard.

Eyes fill again.
She tries—

JO
I just—

Nothing.
She can’t get it out.

A long, fragile silence.
Then, smaller.

JO (CONT’D)
(low, raw)
I needed this part to work.

There it is.
It lands harder than anything before.

Silence.

LINK
Let’s give it a little more time. 
 
Link reaches for reassurance in Iris’s eyes.
 
IRIS
It’s still early.

Jo closes her eyes.
The words land, but only intellectually.

Tears still slipping out, but quieter now.
The sadness sits heavy.

LINK
Seeing them today might help.

Jo nods faintly, trying to steady her breathing.

IRIS
I’ll give you two a minute.

Iris gives Link a small look, then exits.

Silence settles.
Link shifts a little closer.

His hand moves from her arm to her shoulder, then gently to the side of her neck.

Jo’s breathing starts to slow.
Just steady.

She wipes her cheeks again.

JO
(quiet, almost ashamed)
I just…

She exhales.
Shakes her head.

JO (CONT’D)
I can’t even do this right.

That lands heavier than before.

LINK
You are. 

Soft. Certain.

He leans in.
Kisses her forehead. Gentle.
His hand never leaves her.

LINK (CONT’D)
Let's give it a bit more time.
 
Not a promise.
A decision.

Jo nods. She leans into him. 

A breath passes between them.
Something shifts.
Small. But real.

They stay like that a while.
Jo settles against him.
 
LINK (CONT’D)
Did you get any sleep?

JO
Some. 

JO (CONT’D)
(low)
I woke up at four.
Couldn’t shut my brain off.

LINK
You must be exhausted.

He brushes her arm again, slow.

JO
How was Luna?

LINK
Better once I got home. 
(a beat)
She settled.

Jo absorbs that.
Grounding.

LINK (CONT’D)
My mom’s going to try to get Scout and Luna together today.

Jo nods.

JO
Good.

LINK
Yeah.

A quiet pause.

Link reaches into the bag and pulls out a stack of drawings. Edges bent.

He hands them to her.

LINK (CONT’D)
I brought something.
(a beat)
Someone wanted to help decorate your room.

Jo takes them.
Looks at them. Really looks.

And suddenly, her face crumples.
Again. 

Tears spill again. Messy.
Link freezes for a split second.
Then softens.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey…

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
You don’t like them?

A small attempt at humour.
Jo lets out a wet laugh through the tears.

JO
(shaking her head)
No… It’s not that.

More tears come anyway.

JO (CONT’D)
They’re beautiful.

A breath breaks in her chest.

JO (CONT’D)
I love them.

She looks at the drawings again, overwhelmed.

A shaky, helpless breath. Almost a laugh, almost a sob.

JO (CONT’D)
My hormones are all over the place.

That’s the truth.
Raw. Unfiltered.

Link exhales softly.
He understands now.

He slides closer.
Wraps an arm gently around her shoulders.
Pulls her in.

LINK
Come here. 

No fixing.
No reframing.
Just presence.

Jo lets herself fall into him.
Tears still coming.
But slower.
Not gone.
Just… softer.

Her face presses into his shoulder.
Her breathing stutters.
Then eases.

They stay like that.
Drawings between them.

Morning light creeping in.
Nothing resolved.
Nothing fixed.
But held.

Jo doesn’t pull away.

FADE OUT.

22.7.39 – DAY SEVEN – Ndugu Gives Medical Updates

INT. ICU ROOM – LATE MORNING – CONTINUOUS

A few minutes later. 

A soft knock.

Link is still sitting beside the bed, one hand loosely wrapped around Jo’s.
 
His thumb moves slowly against her skin.

They’ve been talking. Low, unfinished.

LINK
Come in.

The door opens.

Ndugu steps in, tablet in hand. Ben follows just behind him.

Jo straightens slightly. Instinctive.

Link shifts closer without thinking, his shoulder brushing hers.

His hand doesn’t leave hers.

LINK (CONT’D)
Hey.

NDUGU
Morning.

JO
Morning.

A beat.

LINK
Tell us you've got good news.

Jo watches Ndugu, searching his face before he speaks.

A small, reassuring smile.

NDUGU
I just reviewed your labs, vitals…
and this morning’s echo.

Link’s fingers tighten gently around Jo’s.

A beat.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
There’s real improvement.

Jo blinks. Processing.
Link exhales softly, the tension leaving him.

His head drops for a second in quiet relief before he looks back at Jo.

BEN
Your numbers are improving.
Heart rate, blood pressure, EF...
All better than yesterday.

Jo’s eyes fill.

She presses her lips together, trying to hold it.

Fails.

A tear slips down.

Link lifts her hand slightly and presses a soft kiss to the back of it.
Doesn’t let go.

NDUGU
We’re not out of the woods yet.
 
Jo nods. She knows.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
But this is what we were hoping to see.

Another tear.
Jo breathes in.
Careful.

JO
Okay…

Her voice is small. Almost inaudible.
Relief and disbelief tangled together.

Link slides an arm behind her back, steadying her as she shifts upright.
Careful. Protective.

LINK
Easy.

His hand stays at her shoulder.
Grounding.

NDUGU
With this trend holding, we can start getting you up.

Jo looks at him. 
A flicker.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
Short trips. With help.
(a beat)
I’ll have a nurse bring a wheelchair.

Jo doesn’t react yet.
She waits.
Needs to hear it.
Ndugu sees it.
A shift in his tone — softer now.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
(soft, gentle)
I think you’re ready to see them.
 
Everything stops.
Jo’s breath catches.

Her face folds quietly.
Tears spill before she can stop them.
Link turns toward her immediately, hand tightening around hers.

His other hand stays firm at her back.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
I want to be clear about something, though.

Jo nods, still crying, but listening.
Link stays close, steady.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
You’re improving. That’s the good news.
(a beat)
But your body’s still recovering from a major trauma.
So no overexertion.

Link nods slightly, taking that in as much as Jo is.

NDUGU (CONT’D)
If you feel dizzy, short of breath, or overly tired, you stop.

BEN
No pushing through.

Link gives a small, knowing look at Jo. Soft. Familiar.

Jo lets out a breath that turns into a quiet cry. 
Different from before. 
Just… release.

Link shifts closer, drawing her gently into him, careful of the lines.

LINK
Hey... 

Soft. Anchoring.
 
JO
I know.

She wipes her cheeks, trying to breathe through it.
 
JO (CONT’D)
I just—

She exhales.
Voice unsteady.

JO (CONT’D)
I can’t believe this is happening.
 
Link nods.
Close.
Certain.

LINK
It is. 

A beat.

He doesn’t move away.

BEN
You’re doing the work.
Your body’s responding.

Jo nods again.
Breath uneven.
Tears still slipping out, but lighter now.

JO
These are good tears.
I swear.

A quiet warmth settles in the room.
Not celebration.
Something steadier.

NDUGU
I’ll send the nurse in shortly.

LINK
Thank you.
 
Jo nods again.

JO
Thank you.

Ndugu gives her one last look, measured, reassuring.
Then turns and exits.

Ben lingers a second.

BEN
You keep this up,
you’ll be bossing people around out there in no time.

Jo lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

JO
I can’t wait.

A beat.

BEN
Now go meet your babies.

That lands.
Gentle.
Ben smiles then follows Ndugu out.

The door closes softly. 
Silence.

Jo leans slightly into Link.
He adjusts instantly, arm secure around her shoulders.
His thumb moves slowly along her arm.
Steady. Repetitive. Grounding.

Jo exhales.
Long.
Shaky.

This is happening.
But it’s fragile.

She doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t need to.

Her breathing catches once, then settles.
Link presses a soft kiss to her hair.

They stay like that.
No rush.
No words.

Just the weight of the door finally opening.

FADE OUT.

22.7.40 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Meets Her Babies for the First Time

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.

22.7.41 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Gets Medical Updates on the Twins

INT. NICU — CONTINUOUS

Jo is still between the incubators.
Her hand remains inside Hattie’s port, fingers lightly curled around impossibly small skin.

The tears have stopped, but traces remain on her cheeks.

Link stands close behind her, one hand firm at her waist, the other resting gently at her shoulder.
Holding.
Not hovering.

Footsteps approach.

Dr. Kasliwal appears beside them. Calm. Unhurried.

She takes it in with a glance.

Jo’s red eyes.
The monitor wires trailing from her arm.
The way Link hasn’t stepped away.

KASLIWAL
(soft)
Hi.

Jo turns slightly toward her.
Careful.

She withdraws her hand from the incubator port.
Reluctant.

JO
Hi—
(swallowing)
Sorry.

She wipes her cheeks with the back of her glove.

KASLIWAL
(gentle)
There’s nothing to apologize for.
(a small beat)
I see you’ve met your girls.

Jo nods.

JO
Yeah.

Her voice catches.
She tries again.

JO (CONT’D)
I—

Nothing.
It won’t come.

Her eyes fill again.

She exhales. Shakes her head slightly.
Embarrassed.

Kasliwal doesn’t rush in.

KASLIWAL
Take your time.

Link feels the tremor running through her.
His arm tightens slightly at her waist.

LINK
(low)
Let’s sit.

A flicker.
Jo hesitates, then nods.

Link moves carefully.
One arm steady at her waist, the other guiding her arm as she lowers into the chair.
Slow.
Controlled.

Once she’s seated, he stays close behind her.
One hand settles at her shoulder.

His thumb begins a slow, repetitive motion.
Grounding.

Jo breathes.
Uneven.
Trying.

LINK
(soft)
It’s okay…

She wipes her face again.
It doesn’t help.

A beat.

Her eyes drift back to the incubators.

JO
How are they?

A breath.

JO (CONT’D)
Really.

The word lands.

Kasliwal nods.

She gestures toward the first incubator.

KASLIWAL
Baby A has made good progress.

JO
(soft)
Hattie.

KASLIWAL
Hattie.

A small, warm acknowledgment.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
(gentle)
That's a beautiful name…

A beat.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Well, Hattie came off CPAP two days ago.
She’s been breathing on her own since.

Jo exhales slowly.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Her weight gain is appropriate for her gestational age.
She's still feeding through a nasogastric tube for now.

JO
What are you giving them?

KASLIWAL
Mostly donor milk for now.

A small nod from Jo.

Her throat tightens.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
(soft)
I understand you were hoping to breastfeed.

A beat.

JO
(quiet)
Yeah… not much has gone according to plan.

Link’s hand presses a little firmer into her shoulder.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ll get there—
when they’re strong enough to coordinate feeding.

A beat.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
In the meantime, we’ll support you through it.

JO
I tried pumping but—
(a beat)
Nothing’s really coming yet.

Kasliwal’s face softens.

KASLIWAL
That’s very common after cardiac stress.
(a beat)
Your body’s been focused on recovery.

Jo nods. A tear slips free.

JO
I know…

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
(soft, supportive)
We can try again today.
While you’re here.

Jo absorbs that.
Quiet.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Seeing them… holding them…
that can help.

Jo nods.
Her eyes drift back to Hattie under the blue light.

A beat.

JO
What about the phototherapy?

Kasliwal follows her gaze.

KASLIWAL
Her bilirubin levels are still rising when we pause it.

Jo stiffens.

JO
How high?

KASLIWAL
Not dangerous.
But enough that we want to continue a bit longer.

Jo nods.
Takes it in.
Not panic.
Weight.

Kasliwal shifts toward the second incubator.
Something changes.
Subtle.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Baby B’s course has been more complicated.

Jo goes very still.

Link’s hands settle more firmly at her shoulders.

JO
(quiet)
Peyton.

KASLIWAL
Peyton.

A small pause.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
(gentle)
That’s a lovely name too.

Jo almost smiles.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Peyton’s weight gain has been slower.
She was on ventilation longer.
We transitioned her to CPAP two days ago.

Jo processes that.
Careful.

JO
Why is she behind her sister?

A small pause.

Kasliwal glances at Link.
He doesn’t move.

The silence stretches.

Jo feels it.

JO (CONT’D)
(quiet)
There’s more.
(urgent)
What aren’t you telling me?

Silence.

Link exhales once.
Then nods.

Permission.

Kasliwal continues.

KASLIWAL
Her echo showed a PDA.

Jo blinks.

JO
(shock)
…what?

KASLIWAL
A patent ductus arteriosus.

A beat.

Jo freezes.
She understands very well what this means.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
A vessel near the heart that—

JO
(soft)
I know what this is.

Link’s hands stay steady.
Grounding.

KASLIWAL
Then you know it’s common in preemies.

Jo is very still now.
Her eyes shine again.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We're treating it with indomethacin.
She’s responding to the medication.
We’re seeing signs it’s starting to close.
(a beat)
But that’s part of why she’s needed more support.

Jo turns slightly toward Link.

He holds her gaze.
Doesn’t look away.
Her voice is quiet. Not angry.

JO
Why didn’t you tell me?

Quiet.
It hurts.

LINK
It was already under control.
(soft)
I didn’t want to put more on you.

Jo looks at him for a long second.
She takes it in.

The hurt doesn’t disappear.
But it settles.

She nods.
Small.

Back to Kasliwal.

KASLIWAL
There’s also a small ASD.
We’re just monitoring it.
As you know, many close on their own over time.

Jo absorbs that.
Her eyes shine again.

JO
So that’s why she’s still on CPAP.

KASLIWAL
Yes.
(a beat)
But her lungs are stronger today.
We haven’t seen any apnea or desaturations since yesterday…
which is encouraging.

Jo looks up.

KASLIWAL
We can try weaning her off CPAP today.

Jo’s breath catches.

JO
Now?

Link jumps in the conversation.

LINK
(quiet)
You’re comfortable with that today?

KASLIWAL
I am, yes.
(a beat)
She’s been stable since yesterday.

Jo and Link glance at each other.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ll watch her very closely.
If she needs support again, we’ll put it back on.

Jo nods.
Slow.
Holding.

JO
When can I hold her?

Kasliwal studies her.

KASLIWAL
Skin-to-skin can help regulate her breathing and heart rate.

Jo nods.

JO
I’m ready.

Link’s thumb moves slowly against her shoulder.

KASLIWAL
Do you feel steady enough?

Jo nods.

JO
Yes.

Not forced.
Certain.

Kasliwal nods.

KASLIWAL
Okay.

A small shift.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ll position her so there’s no pressure on your right side, and we’ll keep all the lines clear.

She glances toward Hattie.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
And while Peyton is with you…
we can position Hattie with Dad.

Link inhales.

LINK
Yeah.

Jo reaches back for his hand without looking.
She just holds it.
No words.

Kasliwal watches.
A small, knowing smile.

KASLIWAL
We’ll give you a moment.
We’ll be right back to set things up.

Jo exhales.
Long.
Bracing.

Link stays exactly where he is.
Hands steady at her shoulders.

Grounding.
Ready.

He leans in, presses a gentle kiss just below her ear.
Jo closes her eyes.
Gathering herself.

FADE OUT.

22.7.42 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Has Her First Skin-to-Skin

INT. NICU — CONTINUOUS

The nurses move in quietly.
Efficient. Gentle.
No rush, but no wasted motion.

Jo’s wheelchair is locked in place between the two incubators.
They lower the back slightly.

One nurse adjusts the monitor leads trailing from Jo’s arm.

Another loosens the ties of her pink gown.

A nurse pulls a privacy screen partially around them.
Not closing them off completely.
Just enough to give the moment space.

The wheeled cardiac monitor hums softly behind her.

Link doesn’t move away.
He kneels beside her, close.

One hand steady at her thigh.
The other braced lightly against the arm of the chair.
Kasliwal steps closer to Peyton’s incubator.

KASLIWAL
(quiet)
We’ll start with Peyton.
(a beat)
We’ll take her off CPAP and see how she does.
If she stays stable, we’ll move her to you.

Jo nods. She doesn’t trust her voice.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Are you ready?

Link and Jo glance at each other.
A small nod.

Kasliwal nods to the nurse.

The nurse adjusts her position.
Another nurse steps in beside her, eyes already on the monitor.

The numbers steady. For now.

The first nurse reaches inside the incubator.
Careful. Measured.

She loosens the soft straps securing the CPAP.
Slowly peeling them back from Peyton’s face.

A pause.

Watching.

Then the nasal prongs.

She doesn’t remove them yet.
She lets Peyton take a few supported breaths.

The room stills around them.

Jo’s fingers tighten slightly against the armrest.

Link’s hand finds hers. Holds.

The nurse glances once at Kasliwal.

A silent check.

Kasliwal gives the smallest nod.

Now, the prongs are eased out.
Slow. Precise.

The faint hiss of pressure fades… then stops.

Silence.

A nurse’s hand hovers close, ready, just in case.

Everyone watches the monitor.

No one moves.

Waiting for the first breath without support.

One breath.
Another.

The numbers flicker — dip — climb.

Jo doesn’t breathe.
Not until she does.

Another breath.

The monitor steadies.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
(low)
She’s doing it.

Jo exhales. A trembling release she didn’t realize she was holding.

The nurse waits another beat.
Watching color. Watching effort. Watching rhythm.
Satisfied.

A few beats pass.

The numbers hold.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
Okay… she’s tolerating it.
Let’s move her.

They lift Peyton carefully, wires gathered, NG tube secured.

She is smaller outside the incubator.
Smaller than Jo imagined.

The nurse lowers her gently onto Jo’s bare chest.

They angle her slightly to the left, keeping clear of Jo’s right side.

Jo gasps softly when she feels the warmth.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
Just… feels it.
Like her body recognizes her before her mind does.

A beat.

Another.

Her hand trembles, then settles against Peyton’s back.
So light. Like she’s afraid she might disappear.

Link shifts closer on his knees.

His hand supports Peyton’s back while the nurse adjusts the blanket and checks the lines.

He stays close. Steady.

Jo rests her cheek against Peyton’s head.

A tear slips free.

JO
(whisper)
Hi, baby…

Peyton shifts once.

A tiny sound.
Then settles.

Her breathing evens against Jo’s skin.

Jo exhales. Long, unsteady.

JO (CONT’D)
You’re okay.
I’m right here.

Her own breathing slows. Matches.

She presses her lips to Peyton’s hat.

Link leans in, his forehead brushing Jo’s temple.

He doesn’t speak right away.
Just watches.

LINK
(quiet)
Hi, Peyton.

She turns slightly toward him.

JO
(emotional)
She’s so… small.

He smiles. Soft, almost disbelieving.

Jo’s hand slides to Peyton’s back.
Feeling the tiny, steady rise beneath her palm.

Across from them, a nurse prepares Hattie.

KASLIWAL
We’ll give Peyton a few minutes to settle.

The nurses step back.
Still watching.
Present.
But giving them space.

Kasliwal lingers a moment, then moves quietly aside.

The monitor continues its steady rhythm.
Time slows.

Jo doesn’t look away.

JO
(to Peyton, barely audible)
I’m here.

A long beat.

The numbers remain steady.

KASLIWAL
Dad, are you ready?

Link nods.

A NICU recliner is rolled beside Jo’s wheelchair. Close. Nearly touching.

Link rises and settles into the chair, opening his gown, pulling his shirt down.

A nurse places Hattie carefully against his bare chest.
He inhales sharply when her warmth meets his skin.

One hand cups the back of her head.
The other supports her body.
Instinctive. Certain.

She squirms once.
Then settles.

Now they sit side by side.
Close. Aligned.

Jo turns her head toward him.

Their eyes meet.
His are bright.

LINK
(soft)
Hey, Hattie.

Jo watches him for a second.

JO
(soft)
Hi, baby…

Link doesn’t take his eyes off Jo.
The way she cradles Peyton.
The way her hands tremble, then steady.

LINK
(soft)
I love you.

She meets his eyes.
Hers are glassy. Happiness tangled with guilt, fear.

JO
(teary eyes)
I love you too.

A beat.

Nothing grand.
Just breath.

Silence settles between them.

Two monitors.
Two tiny chests rising.

Jo looks down at Peyton.
Then at Hattie on Link’s chest.

Something shifts.
Not fear.
Something else.

JO (CONT’D)
(soft, almost shy)
Can I… hold them
just for a second?

The nurses exchange a look with Kasliwal.

KASLIWAL
Very carefully.
Just for a moment.

Jo nods.

KASLIWAL (CONT’D)
We’ll support both of them the whole time.
No movement from you

Link is already moving.
Link rises and steps in beside her.

LINK
(whisper)
There you go...
Let’s get you to Mommy.

A nurse lifts Hattie gently from Link’s chest.

Link moves closer to Jo, one hand firm at her upper back, stabilizing her.

The other supports Hattie’s back as the nurse positions her.
Careful. Coordinated.

They keep both babies angled away from Jo’s right side, protecting the incision and lines.

Link leans in, close enough that his chest nearly brushes her shoulder.
Holding the babies steady.

For a few suspended seconds, no one moves.
No one speaks.

Even the monitors seem quieter.
Both babies rest against her.

Jo goes completely still.
Her chin trembles.

She looks down.
Two tiny faces.
Two fragile bodies.
Both breathing.
Both here.

JO
(barely a breath)
Hi, girls.

Link leans in, his forehead resting lightly against Jo’s hair.

He presses a quiet kiss to her temple.
Jo turns her head slightly toward him.

She looks at him.
No big smile. No collapse.
Just recognition.

He looks at her.
Really looks.

Then he leans in.
Kisses her.
Soft, slow, like he’s afraid to break the moment.
Like he needs to make sure she’s really here.

He doesn’t pull away right away.
Just stays there.
Forehead against hers.

The monitors hum. Steady now.

Time slows.

Four heartbeats.
The wires.
The staff.
Still there.
But distant.

There is only warmth.
Only this.

They don’t move.
No one rushes it.

FADE OUT.

22.7.43 – DAY SEVEN – Jo Shows Signs of Fatigue

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.

22.7.44 – DAY SEVEN – Link Calls Amelia

INT. ICU ROOM — LATE AFTERNOON

Jo is asleep now.
Finally.

Her breathing slow. Heavy.

Link sits beside her.
Still for a moment.
Watching her.
Making sure she’s really out.

His shoulder drops.
Just a little.

He leans back in the chair. 
It’s been a day.

And for the first time since this morning, there’s nothing to do but wait.

He glances at his phone.

2 missed calls from his mom. 

A quiet exhale.
Right. 

He stands carefully and steps out.

INT. HOSPITAL HALLWAY — CONTINUOUS

Louder here.
Hospital sounds.

He dials Maureen.
Rings.

No answer.

He lowers the phone.
Thinks.

Then dials again.
AMELIA.

She picks up quickly.

AMELIA (V.O.)
Hey.
(a beat)
How are you?

LINK
Hey.
(a small exhale)
Okay, I guess. 
(a beat)
You still with my parents?

AMELIA (V.O.)
No. We said goodbye about an hour ago.
Scout stayed with them though.
So if you want to talk to him, you’ll have to call your mom.

Link processes.

LINK
I thought it was your day with him. 
(A beat)
Isn’t Sunday?

AMELIA (V.O.)
(a small smile in her voice)
It is…
(A beat)
But he and Luna didn’t want to split up.

A small shift in Link.

LINK
(soft)
Yeah…
That makes sense.
(a beat)
Thank you for that.

AMELIA (V.O.)
Hey, don’t worry about it.
It’s where he wanted to be.
(A beat)
And your parents didn’t exactly argue against it.

A quiet breath from Link. 

LINK
Yeah… I can imagine.
(A beat)
It’s been hard with Luna without him.

AMELIA (V.O.)
Yeah…
(a little softer)
I figured.
(a beat)
She burst into tears when we were about to leave.

That lands.
Link’s face softens.

A beat.

AMELIA (V.O.)
(Soft)
How’s Jo?

A small pause.

LINK
She met the babies today.
(a beat)
It was… a lot for her.
She’s resting now.

A beat on the line.

AMELIA (V.O.)
Yeah.
I bet.

Quiet understanding.

AMELIA (V.O.)
Let me know if you need anything.
Your parents might need a break.
I can take both kids next weekend.
 
LINK
Yeah…
That would really help.
(a faint exhale)
But you’ll have to convince my mom…
You know how she is. 

AMELIA (V.O.)
Yeah. I offered to take them today, but she wouldn’t…
(A beat, gentler)
You’ll have to ease her into it.

LINK
I’ll talk to her. 
(A beat)
Jo and the twins are going to be here a while. 
I’ll be back and forth, so… yeah, my parents are going to need the support.
(a softer beat)
And the kids could use the distraction. 

AMELIA (V.O.)
(quiet, steady)
We’ll figure it out.

Call waiting.

MAUREEN.

LINK
My mom’s calling me back.

AMELIA (V.O.)
Sure. Go.
Say hi to Jo for me.
(a beat) 
I’ll stop by when things settle a bit.

LINK
I will.
Thanks.

He hangs up.

22.7.45 – DAY SEVEN – Maureen Calls Link

Maureen calling.
Link answers immediately.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Sorry, sweetheart, we were in the middle of bath time.

Link softens instantly.

LINK
No, I’m sorry…
I wanted to call sooner but… 

Maureen doesn’t wait. The question’s been sitting with her all day.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
How did it go today?
How’s Jo?

LINK
It’s been… pretty intense.
She was able to hold them…
(a beat)
She’s okay, but…
Yeah. It was a lot.
She’s sleeping now.

MAUREEN (V.O)
I can imagine... 
Oh, son, we thought about you all day…
(A softer beat)
I’m so glad she finally got to see them.

LINK
Yeah…
(almost to himself)
That was… a lot.

A small silence.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
And now…
Can you finally tell us their names?

Link shifts.
Uneasy.

LINK
I—
(A beat)
I wish Jo was the one to tell you.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Oh, son…
We’ve been waiting all week.
The babies are seven days old now.
 
A flicker in Link.
He exhales.

LINK
I just don’t want to take something else away from her.

A beat. 

On the other end, Maureen exhales, caught between understanding and anticipation.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
The kids won’t let it go.
(a small, almost apologetic beat)
I may have told them they’d know today. 

That lands.

LINK
Mom…

He doesn’t push.
He pivots.

LINK (CONT'D)
Speaking of the kids,
Amelia told me Scout stayed with you.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Yes. 
They didn’t want to split up.
(a softer beat)
Luna broke down in tears.
(lighter)
Those two… they’re inseparable. 

LINK
(soft)
Yeah.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
And honestly?
Luna’s been… lighter with Scout around.
It’s been a bit easier on your dad and me.

That lands.
A quiet release in him.

LINK
(relieved)
Good.
(a beat)
Listen, Mom… if you need a break, Amelia can take the kids for a few days. 
Just so you and Dad can catch a breath.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
A break from them?
I don’t think that’s what they need right now.

LINK
I’m serious.
You’ve been helping us more than we could’ve imagined.
It’d be okay to take a day. Or two. 
(a beat)
Amelia’s Scout’s mom. 
Luna knows her well. 
She’s got them.
 
MAUREEN (V.O.)
I don’t doubt that… 
I just don’t want to leave them when they need me the most. 

LINK
You’re not leaving them.
You’d just… get some air. 
Come back better.
(a beat)
We all need it sometimes.
Think about it.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
And what would we even do?

LINK 
(smiles faintly)
I don’t know.
Go to the spa. 
I’ll pay.

MAUREEN (V.O.) 
No, you won’t. 

LINK
I’ll talk to Dad.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
(giving in, a little)
Alright… I’ll think about it. 

LINK
(soft)
Okay…
Don’t think too much.
Next weekend, okay?

MAUREEN (V.O.)
(nodding reluctantly)
We’ll see.

A small beat.

LINK
So where are they?

MAUREEN
Downstairs with your father. 
Playing board games. Very serious business.
(a distracted beat)
I’m still upstairs, trying to fix their room.
I don’t know what they do in there.
They were in for ten minutes… you should see the mess.

A small, real smile breaks through on Link’s face.

LINK
I ask myself that every day.
 
ERIC (O.S.)
Hey! no cheating! I saw that!

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Hold on. I’ll go downstairs and put you on video.

Movement.
Footsteps.

The phone shifts.
The call switches to video.
Shaky at first. Then steadies.

MAUREEN (V.O.)
Kids.
It’s your dad. 

Immediate chaos.

LUNA (ON VIDEO)
Daddy!!

SCOUT (ON VIDEO)
Dad!!

Their faces fill the screen.
Talking over each other already.
 
SCOUT
Did you see the babies—

LUNA
Are you with Mommy—

SCOUT
What are their names—

LUNA
Granny said you’d tell us—

LINK
Hey— hey—
(laughing softly)
One at a time.

They don’t listen.

LUNA
Are you with Mommy?

LINK
Yeah.
But she’s sleeping right now.
(softer)
She’s really tired.

SCOUT
Where is she?

LINK
Just right behind me.

Link glances back toward the room.
Jo is asleep. Still.
He doesn’t turn the phone toward her.

LUNA (V.O.)
Did she see the babies?

LINK
(soft)
Yeah.
(a beat) 
She got to meet them for the first time today.

SCOUT
(confused)
Why the first time?
(a beat, thinking)
Didn’t they come out of her belly?

Link freezes for half a second.
Caught off guard.

LINK
Yeah… they did. 
(a beat)
But she was asleep when they were born.
 
Scout and Luna process that. 
Quickly.
Then move on.

SCOUT
Did they cry a lot?

LINK
No.
They were pretty calm.

SCOUT
(trying to make sense of it)
Then why is she tired?

That lands.

LINK
(soft, choosing simple words)
Because her body needs to rest. 
You know… she grew two babies in her belly.
(a beat)
That’s a pretty big superpower. 
But it takes a lot of energy.

On screen, Luna and Scout go still.
Eyes widening.

SCOUT
Whoa…

LUNA
(soft)
Like a real superpower…

A quiet beat.

LUNA
Are they still really tiny?

SCOUT
(turning to her)
Like Luna’s doll?

Link exhales softly.

LINK
Yeah.
They’re still tiny.
(a beat)
But they’re getting stronger.

A tiny pause, and it comes back, sharper now.

SCOUT
(coming back to it)
Daddy,  what are their names?

Link freezes.

LUNA
Granny said you’d tell us!

SCOUT
Tell us!

LUNA
Tell us— tell us— tell us—

They start chanting over each other.

SCOUT / LUNA (OVERLAPPING)
What’s her name—
What’s the other one—
Tell us—

MAUREEN (O.S)
I told you they wouldn’t let it go…

Link exhales.
Cornered.

He hesitates.
Just a second.

LINK
(soft, giving in)
Okay…

They go instantly quiet.

LINK (CONT’D)
Peyton.
And Hattie.

A beat.

LUNA
Peyton…
Just like Emily's big sister.

SCOUT
I like Hattie!

LUNA
Peyton’s pretty…

They’re already moving on.

ERIC (O.S.)
Beautiful names, son.

MAUREEN (O.S.)
Peyton and Hattie.
Oh, I love it. 

A flicker crosses Link’s face.

SCOUT
When can they talk?

LINK
Not yet.
They’re still too little.

SCOUT
Okay.
But I’ll teach them.

Luna leans closer to the camera.

LUNA
When can we see them?

Link hears the shift immediately.

LINK
Soon. I promise.

A small silence.
Truth is: he doesn’t know. 
He pivots.

LINK (CONT’D)
So… I heard Scout’s staying tonight?

LUNA
(beaming)
Yes!!

SCOUT
We made our fort!
Under the stairs!
We’re gonna sleep in it!

MAUREEN (O.S.)
I didn’t say yes!

Luna and Scout burst into laughter.

ERIC (O.S.)
It’s not a fort, it’s a safety hazard!

Link laughs. Real this time.

LUNA
You want to see it, Daddy?

LINK
I’ll check it out later.
When I get home.

LUNA
Tonight?

There it is.

LINK
Yeah.
Tonight.

A pause.

LUNA
Okay, Daddy.

Calm now.
It’s not the same Luna.

LINK
I’ll see you in a bit, okay?

LUNA
Okay.

SCOUT
Bye Dad!
 
MAUREEN (O.S.)
Take your time.
We’ve got them.

LINK
(soft)
Thank you.

He hangs up.

Silence again.
But different now.

He stays there a moment.

Phone still in his hand.
Between two worlds.

A flicker of something.

He said the names. 
He exhales.
   
He turns toward Jo’s room.
Through the doorway, she’s still asleep.
Unmoving.

A beat.

Nothing to fix.
Nothing to do.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

A reminder.
PT.

He closes his eyes briefly.

Not now.

But he knows he has to go.

He looks back at her once more.
Then turns.

Starts down the hallway instead.

FADE OUT.

22.7.46 – DAY SEVEN – Link Holds Jo

INT. JO’S HOSPITAL ROOM — EARLY EVENING

Two hours later.

The room is dim.
Too quiet after the NICU.

Jo lies propped against the pillows.
Still.

Her face looks emptied out. 

The door opens.
Link steps in.

He looks spent.
A faint sheen of sweat at his temples.
His shoulder tight, movement careful.

He takes her in immediately. 
Awake.

That stops him.
He wasn’t expecting that.

He moves closer.
Slow. Careful.

LINK
(soft)
Hey…
How long have you been up?

JO
About an hour. 
(a small beat)
Where’d you go?

A flicker of something in him.

LINK
Just… PT.
(a softer beat)
I came straight back.

She nods.
That’s all she has.

He sits on the edge of the bed.
Glances at her.
She’s not really there.

LINK (CONT’D)
You feeling better?

A small nod.
Not convincing.
 
Silence.

He removes his shoes and climbs carefully into the bed beside her. Mindful of every line, every wire.

He turns toward her.
Close now. 
Too close to miss it.

She’s not just tired.
She’s hollow.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
Are you okay?

She nods.
Barely.

He reaches for her arm.
Slow.
Careful.

His thumb brushes her skin.
He leans in.
Kisses her hair.

She closes her eyes.
Leans into it.
Just a little.

He stays there a beat.
Doesn’t move away.

LINK (CONT’D)
(quiet)
I called the kids earlier.

No reaction at first.

Then a flicker.

LINK (CONT’D)
They’re good.
Scout’s staying over.
Luna’s… better.

A small nod from Jo.
Distant.

LINK (CONT’D)
(softer)
They asked about the babies.
(a beat)
A lot. 

That lands.
He hesitates.
He opens his mouth.
Stops.

LINK (CONT’D)
I—
(a beat)
I told them their names.
(a small, almost apologetic beat)
They were so excited.

Silence.

Jo doesn’t move.

Then it hits.

Her face cracks.
Immediate.

JO
(whisper)
You told them?

Not anger.
Something more fragile.
Raw.

LINK
I didn’t mean to—
they kept asking and—

He stops.
Too much.

She folds.
Hands to her face.
And then she’s crying. 

Not quiet.
Not controlled.

It spills out of her.
Raw. Hormonal. Immediate.

Link freezes, just half a second.

Then he moves. 
He pulls her into him.

Firm.
Protective.

She clutches him.
Hard.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m sorry.
(a beat, softer)
I should’ve waited.  

He presses his face into her hair.
Holds her tighter.

LINK (CONT’D)
I’m sorry. 

Her crying shifts.
Still there, but quieter now.

She feels him.
His guilt. 

She pulls back slightly.
Just enough to look at him.

JO
(through tears)
It’s not… about the names. 

He searches her face.

LINK 
Still— I should’ve—

She shakes her head.

JO
No—
(a breath, catching)
It’s just…
everything.
 
A beat.

He nods. 
Doesn’t argue.

JO (CONT’D)
It feels like I’m abandoning them again.

That lands.

He pulls her back in.
Immediate.

LINK
You’re not abandoning anyone.

JO
I wasn’t there when they needed me.

LINK
You were fighting for your life. 
(a beat)
And I was there.
(a beat)
They weren't alone.   

Silence.

She breathes.
Trying. 
 
JO
(whisper)
I just want normal. 

Fragile.

JO (CONT’D)
I want to wake up and just… be their mom.
(a breath)
Hold them.
(another)
Feed them.
(softer)
Not… wait for permission.

Her eyes close. 

He presses a kiss to her hair again.

LINK
This part is temporary. 

JO
It doesn’t feel like it.
 
A long beat.
 
JO (CONT’D)
Are they going to be okay?

He doesn’t rush it.
 
LINK
They are. 
 
She searches him. 

JO
What about Peyton?

There it is. The fear.
 
LINK
She’s being treated.
(a beat)
And look what she did today.
That wasn’t nothing. 

JO
What if something changes when we’re not there?

Quiet. Constant fear. 
He tightens his hold.

LINK
Then they call us.
(a beat)
But right now, they’re steady. 
You saw that. 
And they have the best doctors watching them.
 
She nods. 
Barely.
 
JO
They’re still fragile.
 
LINK
Yeah.
(a beat)
But moving forward.
Just like you are.
 
Silence.

JO
(whisper)
I just want to go home.
All of us.

No drama. 
Just… exhaustion. 

She looks at him.

He looks wrecked too.
Red eyes.
Holding it together.
 
LINK
We will. 
(a beat)
We just… take it one step at a time.

Silence stretches.

JO
They had me try pumping again… before you came in.

That shifts something in him.

LINK
(soft)
Yeah?

She shakes her head slightly.
 
JO
No arythmia.
But just a tiny drop of colostrum…
(a beat)
It's barely anything. 

A beat.

LINK
Hey…
That's something.

JO
But what if it doesn't come?

Silence.

He lets it sit.

LINK
Then we feed them another way. 

Simple.  
Grounded.

LINK (CONT’D)
It won’t change who you are to them.

She looks at him. 

JO
It changes what I thought this would be.
 
That’s the wound. 

He nods.
He understands that.

His hand moves to her shoulder.
Slow.
Grounding.

LINK
Nothing about this went the way we thought.
(a beat)
But we’re still here.
(a quieter beat)
That’s what matters right now.

Another beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
We’ll figure it out.
Together. 

Her eyes close.
 
JO
It feels like my body keeps failing them.

He pulls her closer.

LINK
Your body carried them through everything. 
(a beat)
That’s not failing. 

Silence.

She presses into him.

JO
I just want all six of us in one place.
 
LINK
I know. 
(a beat)
We’ll get there.

A beat. 

She holds it together for a moment.
 
Then her breathing wavers again. 
Then it hits again. The hormone crash. 

She breaks.
Quieter this time.
Deeper.

He doesn’t speak.
He just holds her.

JO
(a small, shaky breath) 
I cried more in two days than in the last ten years.

A small breath from him. 

LINK
(soft, a hint of a smile)
Yeah… that sounds right. 

A faint, broken smile through tears.

He reaches for tissues.
Hands her one.

She wipes her face.

A beat.

LINK (CONT’D)
(soft)
Are you okay with me going home tonight?

JO
You promised the kids.
(a beat)
Can you just… stay a little bit longer?

He nods. No hesitation.
 
He pulls her closer. 

She closes her eyes.
Holding onto him.

And then, her body gives in.

She drifts.
Still holding him.

Link doesn't move.
Watching her.
Listening to her breathe.

He presses a soft kiss to her temple.

No words. 
Just presence.

FADE OUT.

Episode 22×08 — “Heavy on Me” (Canon)

Jo lies awake in her hospital bed, distant and unfocused. Link is beside her, quietly taping drawings to the wall of her room.

Ndugu makes rounds with Adams and stops to check on Jo. Link congratulates Ndugu on the podcast he recorded with Teddy about their groundbreaking procedure, joking that he didn’t know that all this happened during their wedding. Ndugu replies that you never know when an idea will strike.

Adams gives a medical update: Jo is post-op day 7 from an emergent C-section and Impella CP placement, and post-op day 3 from a 5.5 Impella placed through the right axillary artery. Her heart function continues to improve, with her EF up another 5%. He mentions that he heard Jo got to meet her babies the day before and asks how they’re doing.

Jo explains that Peyton is off CPAP but still fragile, while Hattie’s bilirubin levels are bad every time they pause phototherapy. Link notes that everyone, including Jo, is heading in the right direction, and that’s what matters. Jo quietly says she just wants the six of them to finally be together.

Iris enters the room and starts gossiping about Markus before noticing Ndugu’s presence. Embarrassed, she says she’ll come back later. Jo picks up on the tension and asks what that was about. She then asks Ndugu if he’s been sleeping with her favorite nurse. He admits they’ve gone out a couple of times.

Jo, clearly emotional from the hormones, asks if he plans on taking her out again. Link tries to shut the conversation down, saying it’s none of their business, but Jo suddenly breaks down. Through tears, she explains that this is the entire department’s favorite nurse and that everyone loves her. Link hands her tissues and gently tells Ndugu it’s the hormones talking. Ndugu checks if Jo will be okay before leaving; Jo says yes, though clearly overwhelmed.

Later in the NICU, Link pushes Jo in her wheelchair while a nurse wheels the machines she’s still attached to. Jo smiles brightly, greeting her daughters and asking if they’ve gotten bigger. The NICU nurse confirms that Hattie is up a full ounce in the last 24 hours and that Peyton isn’t far behind.

Jo carefully stands to see her babies. Link jokes that Lincolns clearly know how to bulk. He tells Jo he has to go to physical therapy and asks if she’ll be okay. She reassures him, though he double-checks. They share a tender kiss before he helps her sit back down and leaves.

Another mom in the NICU asks Jo if she’s Peyton and Hattie’s mom. Jo becomes emotional: it’s the first time someone has said that to her. The woman offers her a tissue. Jo admits she’s an OB-GYN and that although she talks to patients all the time about postpartum hormone drops, she had no idea how intense and unpredictable it could feel. The two bond, and the woman says Jo is her first mom friend. Jo tells her she’s honored. The two share details about their deliveries and Jo tells her that she had a crash C-section.

Later, the woman asks Jo if it’s normal that her baby isn’t blinking much. Jo reassures her, and the woman comments on how cool it is that Jo knows all of this. She then confesses that she doesn’t really feel bonded to her baby yet. Jo gently explains that it’s completely normal: she’s exhausted, her hormones are all over the place, and newborns are still just blobs. In a few weeks, there will be smiles and laughter, and it will feel different. The woman tells Jo she’s a great doctor and asks if she’s taking new patients.

At that moment, Link returns and asks how his girls are doing. Jo says they’ve made a new friend but suddenly the woman collapses and begins seizing.

Link immediately places her in the recovery position and calls for a rapid response. Jo, still in her wheelchair, clutches her chest from the stress. When the team arrives, Jo notes that the woman is seven days postpartum and urges them to check her blood pressure. It’s likely eclampsia, and she needs magnesium immediately. She points out that the symptoms came out of nowhere.

Jo asks Link to go with the woman up to OB and to call her once they arrive. On the phone upstairs, Link explains what the intern is doing. When Jo realizes the doctor is an intern and that he’s ordering a CT instead of starting magnesium, she asks to be put on speaker. She forcefully corrects him, threatening to schedule him for every holiday if he doesn’t listen. The intern finally administers the magnesium. Relieved, Jo ends the call and reassures the baby that his mom is going to be okay.

Jo is wheeled back in OB by a male nurse. She asks Iris to look up the woman’s chart. Iris refuses, explaining she isn’t the patient’s doctor. Jo grows frustrated, insisting she just wants to check on her. She’s this woman’s only friend, and her doctor has only been practicing for 90 days. Iris still won’t budge. Jo snaps, drawing attention from everyone around.

Link arrives and immediately sees Jo unraveling. He gently starts to wheel her away, but Jo panics, accusing him of moving her against her will. He stops, asks the nurse for a moment. Jo is unravelling and says this isn’t okay. Link tells her he knows she’s scared but that Iris is just doing her job. He holds her as she breaks down.

Back in Jo’s room, Link adjusts her pillows as she lies in bed. Jo says she’ll have to change hospitals because she’s cried in front of too many people here. Link reassures her that they understand.

He removes his shoes, lowers the bed rail, and lies beside her. Jo admits that since being admitted, she feels like she’s lost herself: she can’t take care of their kids, her patients, or even take a shower. Link reminds her it’s temporary and that her heart is recovering. Jo knows that and she clings to his arm for comfort.

She says that for a few hours that day, she got to be a doctor again and she helped someone navigate a difficult time. And then, when it really mattered, someone else had to take over. Link tells her that at least Gina is okay, and that he’s sure Gina would say what Jo did mattered, maybe even more.

Jo agrees, then starts crying again, blaming the hormones. Link hands her tissues. They share a quiet laugh.

↑ Back to timeline ↑

To be continued

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Responses

Beth

2026-01-04

This is literally amazing

Reply
gigi

2026-02-01

please post the next part!!

Reply
1. Jolinkstories
  
  2026-02-03
  
  It’s coming. It’s a long and complicated batch, more than 30 scenes with a lot of medical stuff and many arcs to cover.
  But it will be worth the wait. At least, I hope so 🙂
  
  Reply

Narrative Intent

When Love Is the Only Certainty

Reading Guide

For a more immersive reading experience

Timeline

Read the continuous story ↓

Episode 22×01 — “Only the Strong Survive” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.1

Episode 22×02 — “We Built This City” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.2

Episode 22×03 — “Between Two Lungs” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.3

Episode 22×04 — “Goodbye Horses” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.4

Episode 22×05 — “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.5

Episode 22×06 — “When I Crash” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.6 (part 1)

Episode 22×07 — “Skyfall” (Canon)

Missing Scenes Batch 22.6 (part 2)

TWELVE HOURS LATER

Missing Scenes Batch 22.7

Episode 22×08 — “Heavy on Me” (Canon)

To be continued

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