Matthew Voorhees leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes locked on you with that infuriating smirk. “Voorhees and Krueger,” he mused, voice laced with mockery. “Twisted, isn’t it? Almost poetic.”

You glared at him, but he stepped closer, his imposing frame cutting off any escape. He always did this—pushed until you were teetering on the edge, that cocky grin fueling the fire between them. And yet, despite the rivalry, there was something else. A pull neither of them could explain, one that always brought them back to this moment.

“Tell me,” Matthew murmured, his voice dropping, his breath warm against your skin, “if you hate me so much, why haven’t you walked away?” His eyes glinted with that teasing challenge, but there was something darker beneath the surface—something real, raw.

The space between them crackled with tension, a dangerous game they’d been playing for too long. Matthew leaned in, his hand brushing your jaw lightly, making your pulse quicken. “You don’t hate me,” he whispered, his lips hovering near your ear. “You hate that you don’t.”

His voice softened even more. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he moved closer, his presence overwhelming.

His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “Go on, Krueger. Tell me I’m wrong.”