CHAPTER ONE: “You Shouldn’t Have Come Back”
Enemies to lovers AU — Megan Skiendiel x fem!reader
There was a time when Megan Skiendiel would’ve sat beside you, knees bumping, laughing so hard her face went red over something absolutely no one else found funny.
Now, when she walks into the library and sees you sitting at the back table, her smile isn’t soft— it’s razor sharp.
“Oh!” she says, tossing her bag down and not even trying to hide the amusement in her voice. “It’s you.”
You don’t look up from your notes on the table.
“Take a seat,” your jaw clenched, already dreading her presence.
“I thought they were assigning actual tutors. Not… emotional baggage.”
You pause. Slowly lifting your eyes to meet hers. “Are you done yet?”
She smirks. “Not even close sweetheart.”
You could say something clever. You want to, but you won’t give her that satisfaction. She thrives off reactions— off of making you flinch. But you’re not like that anymore.
But God, seeing her like this again?
It’s like the years apart never even happened— like you’re still those two little girls in a sleeping bag under fairy lights, whispering secrets and dreams into the darkness, except now, that glow is gone. Replaced by something extremely bitter.
And burning.
She pulls out a chair with the loudest possible scrape ever and she slouches into it like she owns the place, manspreading to the utmost extent. She’s wearing a black fitted long-sleeve top, headphones hanging around her neck, her nails painted a chipped crimson. Her lip gloss is a little too perfect— like she knew she’d see you tonight.
“So, tutor me,” she says, pulling a pen from behind her ear and twirling it between her fingers. “Go on, make me smart again.” She teases.
You blink. “We’re reviewing exponents and logarithms. Try to keep up.”
“Try to be less boring McSmarty-pants,” she mutters, flipping open her textbook lazily to a new page.
You spend the first few minutes walking her through problems. Her eyes wander. She sighs. She draws tiny daggers in the margins of her worksheet and then flips it around for you to see.
Her own masterpiece
You, stabbed— and smiling.
“Real mature,” you mutter, pushing it back. “Real easy target,” she lulled. You take a deep breath. “Why are you even here?”
She shrugs. “Coach said if I fail math, I’m off the team. You’re my punishment.” She smirks at you deviously.
“I’m not the one who doesn’t know how to isolate x.”
She leans forward, close enough to smell her perfume— something soft and sweet, like cherries and vanilla.
“So you think you’re better than me now, huh?”
You look her dead in the eye. This lasts forever, like an undeclared staring contest. Until you speak again. “No. I’ve always been better than you.”
Something shifts.
Her smile falters— just for a second.
And then it’s back. Darker. More dangerous.
She leans closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. “You really came back acting brand new. Like we don’t have history. Like I don’t know you.”
“You really don’t,” you say quietly, leaning closer.
“Not anymore.”
The table between you feels smaller now. Like it could collapse under the weight of everything unsaid.
She taps her pen once.
Twice.
Then she says, low and deliberate;
“You used to tell me everything. What happened?”
“You changed.”
“You ran.”
“I had to.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
Her voice hits you harder than it should. You clench your fists under the table.
You hate that she still gets to you. You hate that her eyes flick down to your lips when you’re quiet too long. You hate that she smells the same. That she talks the same. That there’s still that thread— frayed, and fragile— connecting you to her.
“You think I liked watching you disappear?” she snaps suddenly.
The question lands like a punch to the stomach.
“You acted like I didn’t exist for months, what are you on about?” You retort.
Her laugh is dry. “Yeah. Because if I didn’t push you away first, you were gonna leave anyway.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened.”
“You don’t get to act like you didn’t break me first.”
You freeze.
She looks at you then— really looks at you. Like she’s just now realizing you’re real. That you came back. That she has no idea what to do with that.
The silence is thick now. Heavy.
Daring.
You’re both sitting in a war neither of you declared, but both of you keep fighting like you’re scared of what peace would mean.
You push back from the table. “This was a mistake.”
But as you gather your things, she stands up too.
“Megan,” you warn.
She moves in close— too close, her hand catching your arm, not rough but enough to stop you. Her voice is quiet but sharp. “Why’d you volunteer for this if you hate me so much?”
You swallow. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Still stayed.”
You stare at her. Her eyes are wild — not angry, exactly. More like desperate. Like she wants to rip her chest open and hand you every messy piece but doesn’t know how without burning it all down.
And then, something in her breaks.
Not loudly. Just… slips.
She shoves your folder off the table, grabs your jaw with both hands, and kisses you.
Hard. It’s not romantic.
It’s pent-up years of silence and shouting and things you never said. Her lips crash into yours with zero grace, all fire. Her ring catches against your cheekbone, cold and sharp. She tastes like cinnamon gum and regret. Her hands shake like she’s scared of what this means. Like she’s only allowing it because it’ll ruin her anyway.
You kiss her back.
For one breath. One second. One undeniable truth.
Then you shove her off.
You both stand there, breathing hard, staring at each other like two girls standing in the wreckage of a home they burned down together.
“I hate you,” You pant.
Megan’s mouth twitches. “I know.”
And yet neither of you move.
