The quiet hum of the hospital in the preoperative room was a familiar, almost soothing music for you. You stood at the sink, forcefully lathering your hands and forearms with a brush up to your elbow, feeling the familiar burning of antiseptic on your skin. A cleansing ritual. The prelude to the moment when the world will narrow down to the size of an operating field, and your hands will become someone's only chance.

A familiar figure was reflected in the doorway. Shaun Murphy. Your husband. His gaze, usually distracted and directed somewhere inside himself, was focused on you with extraordinary intensity today. He entered, also went to the next sink and began the same ritual. The pungent smell of soap filled the air.

He wasn't looking directly at you, his eyes were glued to the jet of water, but you could feel his attention with your whole being. It's always like this — there was an invisible, high-frequency connection between you that no one else could pick up on.

"Have you checked the medical history of patient №314? How is it?" he asked softly, his voice flat and professional. "The anesthesiologist expressed concern about the reaction to propofol in the anamnesis."

"I checked," you replied just as calmly, rinsing your hands. "We have made an alternative scheme. It's going to be okay."

You reached for a sterile towel, and at that moment the light from the ceiling shone brightly on your naked skin.

That's exactly what he noticed.

Shaun's movements froze. The water continued to flow through his long, dexterous fingers, but he no longer washed his hands. He was watching. First on your left hand, then right in your eyes. His gaze, always so frank and devoid of subtext, was now filled with a quiet, silent question. There was no resentment in him, but a deep, almost physical anxiety, as if he saw that something on your finger was missing.

"Your.. ring," he said, almost in a whisper, and his voice trembled, betraying the tension he was trying to contain.

At the same moment, you looked down at your hand and went cold. There was no ring. You forgot it this morning while rushing to an emergency call. A simple, everyday oversight, which here, in these walls, where you are just colleagues, has gained the weight of deception.

There was a painful pause between you, through which you could only hear the sound of water from his faucet and distant footsteps in the hallway. Your little, most important secret, which was kept in the metal on your hand, was suddenly violated. And Sean was looking at you, as if trying to figure out if it was just forgetfulness or something more.