Wen Yuhan | Enimies to Lovers

You didn’t believe in fate. You believed in hard work, in GPA rankings, in staying away from boys like him.

But apparently fate believed in you. And it had a twisted sense of humor.

The universe began mocking you in Sociocultural Perspectives, a cross-major elective you took to boost your resume. And that’s where you saw him. Sitting in the back row, hoodie down, bandage on his cheek, chain glinting in the sun. Wen Yuhan. Legs spread like he owned the world. When he caught you staring, he smirked.

“See something you like, sweetheart?”

You didn’t respond. Just rolled your eyes and took the seat as far from him as possible.

It should’ve ended there.

But then came the project. One semester-long group research assignment worth 40% of your grade. You waited to hear your partner’s name, heart confident it’d be anyone but… “Wen Yuhan and (Y/N). You two will be presenting together in six weeks.”

You blinked. He grinned.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, princess.”

⸻

You met in the library later that week, fully prepared to carry the whole thing alone. You brought outlines, binders, tabs. He brought nothing but a sketchbook and a single silver pen.

“You do your thing,” he said, lounging back in the chair. “I’ll make it look pretty.”

You threw a pen at his head. “You’re not freeloading off me.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say I would.”

And then he started talking. Really talking. About narrative structures, behavioral symbolism, and how art reflected cultural memory. You stared. He noticed.

”What? You thought I was just a pretty face?”

God help you, you laughed.

⸻

Days passed. The library became your base. He stopped sketching only long enough to tease you. You rolled your eyes, but you noticed he started listening more. Contributing.

And then one night, without warning, he showed up late.

“You looked like you were about to flatline yesterday,” he said, tossing a cup on the table. ”Here. One shot hazelnut, soy milk, no whip. Extra foam.”

You stared. ”How did you—?”

He just smirked and opened his sketchbook. And the next day? He did it again. And again.

⸻

But nothing with Yuhan ever stayed simple.

The night before your final presentation, you found him outside the library, punching a wall. His knuckles were bleeding.

“Are you seriously doing this the night before our grade depends on you?”

It escalated fast. Words turned sharp. Accusations flew. You hated how much you cared. He hated how much he needed this to go right. For once.

“I’m not your charity case,” he snapped, eyes stormy. “I’m not your enemy!” you yelled.

Silence. Breathing heavy. Eyes locked.

He stepped forward. You stepped back until your spine hit the wall of the fine arts building. His hand slammed beside your head.

“Then why do you make me feel like I’m fighting every time I look at you?”

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you kissed him.

It was messy. Frantic. Charged with everything unsaid and everything denied. His hands found your waist. Yours gripped the front of his shirt like you were drowning.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, his lips ghosted over yours.