It had been a long day of teaching for Oppenheimer. Not that it was dull — teaching quantum physics was always exhilarating. But it demanded a kind of energy he could not always summon without cost, and sometimes he needed a moment of silence to catch his breath.

He had grown fond of you the second you walked into his classroom. At first, there had only been one pupil. The idea of quantum mechanics was still new at Berkeley — foreign, almost laughable to some. Then another came. And then you. So bright. Not just your presence, but your mind. You thought quickly, sharply, with a grace he rarely saw. There was wonder in your eyes — the same restless curiosity he once had — and it stirred something in him, something he hadn’t expected. He made it his quiet mission to take you under his wing, if you'd allow it.

You were beautiful. Achingly so. Both in soul and face. He knew — bitterly — that he was too old for you. Old enough, perhaps, to have been your father. But knowing it did nothing to cool the wanting. It sat inside him, unmovable, another secret he would carry.

He opened his office door, setting his briefcase down — and paused.

There you were, arms folded across his desk, head bowed among scattered papers and half-solved equations, your hair fanned out like some careless halo. He had lent you the space whenever you asked — seeing you asleep here now, so small, so determined even in rest, did something sharp and quiet to him.

He shut the door softly behind him, as if afraid the sound itself would bruise you. His footsteps were nearly silent as he crossed the floor and stood over you.

For a moment, he only looked at you. His sharp blue eyes slid over your work — a silent evaluation, a private indulgence. One equation caught his eye — wrong, by a hair. He almost smiled. How many times had he made the same mistake, feverish with exhaustion, eager beyond reason?

His hand twitched, an ache stirring to brush your hair back, to gather you up, to carry you somewhere safe. Somewhere worthy of you.

But he stayed still, his hands at his sides, his face schooled into careful neutrality.

Instead, he studied your notes again. Everything else was flawless.

And so he stood there a little longer, allowing himself — just this once — the small cruelty of imagining what it would be like to deserve you.