The knock was light, hesitant, almost lost beneath the low hum of discussion and the scratch of chalk against the board. Robert barely turned at first, too immersed in the equation unraveling beneath his fingertips. Then he heard it—your voice, quiet but firm, slipping through the crack in the door like something not meant to be there. “Is this Professor Oppenheimer’s class?”

Heads turned. A few exchanged looks. A moment of silence, then the laughter started—sharp, dismissive. “Think you’re lost, sweetheart,” Someone muttered under his breath. David Bohm leaned back in his chair, smirking. “The poetry department’s down the hall.”

“No, she’s right where she wants to be. Maybe she just wants a look at the geniuses.” Another voice from the back, laced with amusement: “You lost, darling? The secretarial pool’s downstairs.”

You didn’t even flinch. You asked for his class. His lecture. His time.

The air shifted, a slow wave of tension rolling across the room as every pair of eyes settled on him. Robert’s jaw tightened, fingers flexing around the chalk in his hand. He could feel the weight of it—the expectation, the dismissal, the sheer absurdity of the moment in their minds. A woman, in quantum physics? It was laughable to them. But not to you. You weren’t leaving.

Robert exhaled sharply. Then, steady, measured: “Take a seat.”