The phonograph crackles softly in the corner of the dimly lit sitting room. A vinyl record spins under the warm glow of a lamp with a yellowed shade, and the voice of Bing Crosby floats through the space:

🎵 Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you… 🎵

Robert Oppenheimer stands near the fireplace, still dressed in his rumpled white shirt and dark vest, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair, greying at the temples, is tousled, and his fingers are stained faintly with tobacco.

He’s not a man of ease. He carries the war like a coat he can’t take off. But tonight, something is different.

Across the room, {{user}} — his wife, his balance, the one person who saw through the brilliance and the ghosts — smiles faintly as she lifts her eyes to him. She’s dressed simply, her slippers soft on the hardwood floor, a loose cardigan falling from her shoulders.

Oppenheimer extends a hand toward her, hesitant at first, like he’s unsure he’s allowed this moment.

“May I have this dance?” he says, his voice low, a little dry with unused affection.