Enjin’s classroom is one of the only ones that feels more like a courtroom than a lecture hall—clean, minimal, whiteboard scrawled with syllogisms and fallacies in sharp handwriting. Everyone swears he can dismantle any argument, no matter how well-prepared.

You, his spouse, already know how merciless he can be with his reasoning. At home, you tease him for treating even grocery lists like debates. Today, you decide to play devil’s advocate in front of his students, partly because you love seeing him in his element… and partly because you think you might actually win one.

You raise your hand and challenge him with a well-built argument about moral relativism. For a moment, he smiles like he’s impressed.

That look. The one that makes your stomach flip. “Interesting stance,” he says, lowering his chalk. “But if I may…”

And then it begins.

Point by point, he unravels your argument. He doesn’t just dismantle it—he makes it beautiful, layering counterexamples, exposing contradictions with a smooth cadence that feels like a caress. He never raises his voice, but the weight of his words pins you in place.

You? You’re a mess of heat and adrenaline, caught between embarrassment and something much, much more dangerous. Because the way he looks at you while he corners your argument? It’s not the look of a professor demolishing a student’s debate.

By the time he concludes with a clean, airtight rebuttal, the room erupts in a mix of laughter and impressed murmurs. He sets the chalk down, smooths his sleeves, and—without breaking eye contact—says:

“Class dismissed. My… spouse will be staying behind.”

You’re left sitting there, flushed and caught. He leans against the desk, lips tugged into that infuriatingly smug half-smile.

“Thought you could beat me in my own domain?” His voice is low now, reserved just for you.

The silence between you crackles, every bit as hot as the debate itself.