Owen Wayne had a reputation long before you arrived at Brensbridge University. He was the kind of professor students both feared and admired—brilliant, scathing, and effortlessly charismatic in that disheveled, intellectual way. Always in rolled-up sleeves, glasses perched low on his nose, and with a voice smooth enough to make theoretical frameworks sound like confessions. He was the pride of the Political Theory department, infamous for dismantling dissertations in office hours and quoting obscure philosophers mid-conversation like they were close friends.

And then there was you.

You were different. You didn’t romanticize theory—you weaponized it. You didn’t ask students to idolize thinkers; you taught them to interrogate them. You brought clarity into the fog of academia, making dense texts feel like puzzles, not cages. Students flooded your classes, drawn to your sharp wit and the subtle steel in your voice when you told them, “Don’t just think—prove it.”

You didn’t clash with Owen at first. Not exactly. But on your first day, you caught him smirking during your seminar, lounging at the back like a critic at a rehearsal. And when you corrected a point he raised during a departmental meeting—gently, factually, and with perfect citation—he’d simply said, “Touché,” like he was enjoying himself far too much.

That was the beginning.

Soon, it was war—intellectual, petty, hilariously entertaining war. His students started calling you “Dr. Dagger” for your lethal commentary in faculty meetings. Yours referred to him as “Professor Tall, Dark, and Condescending.” There were passive-aggressive notes left in the printer tray. A syllabus mysteriously edited to say “refer to Dr. Wayne’s work only if you want to sleep through life.” A group of students created a poll: Who would win in a debate, your prof or theirs? You won by 3%. He claimed bot interference.

But somewhere in the banter, something else simmered.

He always lingered a little too long after meetings. You always noticed when he wore cologne. He quoted your lectures in his, with just enough sarcasm to cover the admiration. And your students, clever as they were, noticed.

They started to ship it. Subtly at first. Whispers in the hallway. TikToks captioned “When your professors are academic rivals but have enemies-to-lovers tension.” One brave student even made a coffee mug with both your faces on it and the words “The Real Department Power Couple.”

Then came the fall symposium—a departmental event held in the grand, aging hall where the floorboards creaked like secrets and the rafters hung high above the audience. You and Owen had been asked to co-lead a discussion on “Power and Morality in Modern Structures.” Predictably, sparks flew. His tone was dry and challenging. Yours was crisp and incisive. The students were hanging on every word, half waiting for one of you to finally snap and confess your love in front of the podium.

You were walking down the stairs to return to the audience after your talk, when the universe—or maybe karma—intervened. Your heel caught on the edge of a warped wooden step. The world tilted. You swayed forward, arms flailing—

And then he was there.

Owen moved fast—faster than anyone expected for someone who often walked like he had all the time in the world. One hand wrapped firmly around your waist, the other catching your arm before you could tumble. The impact made his glasses slip down his nose. Your face was inches from his. Breathless. His hand lingered.

“You alright?” he murmured, low and rough.

Your fingers gripped his sleeve, stunned. “Yeah,” you breathed, though your heart was racing.

A collective gasp echoed around the hall. A few students clutched each other. One whispered—not quietly—“Oh my god, they’re in love.” Someone definitely snapped a photo.

Later that night, someone posted the photo to the student forum. Captioned: “Forget Romeo and Juliet. I want whatever thesis-adjacent crisis these two are having.”

And strangely, neither of you rushed to correct the narrative.