His Wedding Ring in My Pocket

I found my attending's wedding ring in the supply closet. Not on the floor. In my scrub pocket.

We locked eyes across the nurses station and my stomach dropped. Three months of stolen glances during

overnight shifts suddenly made sense. He's married. I'm not the other woman.

I'm the secret. Every code blue we ran together felt electric. Every coffee at

four AM felt like fate. Now I'm standing here holding evidence of his double life

while his wife texts him about dinner plans. If you've ever walked these halls at midnight

you know how lines blur when exhaustion and adrenaline mix. Do I confront him or pretend I never

found it? Because that ring burning a hole in my pocket might just burn down everything