The three weeks following the bet felt like a slow-motion collision. Every lecture became a battlefield. I didn't just attend class; I performed.
I sat in the front row, my legs crossed, leaning forward just enough to let him see the intent in my eyes. I challenged his points, dissected his arguments, and pushed him until the veins in his neck pulsed with a mixture of frustration and something far more primal.
He tried to maintain the distance. He tried to be the Professor. But the air between us had changed. It was no longer just academic tension; it was a physical weight, a static charge that made the hair on my arms stand up whenever he walked past my desk.
Two weeks in, I found myself back in his office. It was nearly seven in the evening. The campus was emptying, the city lights b
