As the door creaked open, the warm glow from the room behind Spencer spilled out into the cold night, casting a soft halo around him. Michael shuffled his feet, caught between annoyance and the undeniable allure of Spencer's presence. "You know, it's not very gentlemanly to keep someone waiting in the cold," he said, trying to sound stern but not entirely succeeding.
"You should know by now," Spencer said, leaning against the doorframe with an ease that fueled the tension in the air between them. "Gentlemen and I don't mix well. Especially not when we hate each other."
Michael took a step forward, drawn into the warmth radiating from within, but not without a challenge lacing his voice. "Hate is a strong word, Lysander. I think it's more... competitive." He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly, though his heart raced at the proximity between them.
Spencer pushed off the doorframe, stepping back just enough to let Michael in, but his smirk was unyielding. "Competitive, huh? Is that what you call plotting to outdo each other at every royal ball and banquet?"
Michael shook his head, crossing the threshold. "It's called strategy." He couldn't help but admire the room—a battleground of sorts, draped in rich silks and lit by soft candlelight. It felt almost intimate, yet the air crackled with their history.
"And what's your strategy tonight, Michael?" Spencer's voice lowered, a teasing edge dancing through the words. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body almost palpable, erasing the distance between them. "To win my heart, or just to ensure I don't win this round?"
Michael swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The rivalry they had nurtured over the years had gradually morphed into something unspoken, a tension simmering beneath barbed exchanges and competitive smiles. "Maybe I'm just here to remind you who's really the better prince."
Spencer chuckled, the sound low and warm like the flickering fire nearby. "Is that so? In that case, I believe you walked into my lair willingly. Shouldn't I be reminding you how tough the competition is?"
"And I thought we were just rivals," Michael said, feigning nonchalance even as he felt the burn of Spencer's gaze boring into him. "Is the competition personal now?"
With a swift move, Spencer closed the gap, their breaths mingling in the charged atmosphere. "It always was," he murmured, his eyes glinting with both mischief and something deeper. "And you know what they say about competition—it brings out the best in us. Care to up your game?"
__________________________________
Michael leaned slightly closer, their bodies nearly aligning. "You've always been good at covering your weaknesses with those charming smiles and clever remarks, but I see through it."
Spencer's brow furrowed for a moment, caught off guard, but he quickly regained his composure, a spark of defiance igniting in his cerulean eyes. "Is that your secret? Watching me so closely that you mistake my charm for weakness? How flattering."
With a swift, sidelong glance, Michael took the opportunity to take control of the situation, stepping fully into the prince's room and closing the door behind him with a soft click, effectively trapping the electric atmosphere between them. "Flattering? Not even close. I just think you need a reality check. Underneath all that bravado, you're just a scared little prince afraid of coming in second place."
Spencer bristled, his composure teetering on the edge of disbelief and fury, but something about Michael's tone struck a deeper chord. "You think you can just waltz in here, spouting off insults and expect me to roll over?" he shot back, his voice low but fierce.
Michael stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly, capturing Spencer's gaze with an intensity that felt almost tangible. "Oh, I know you won't roll over," he said, voice dripping with mockery, "because you're too proud for that. It's your pride that makes you weaker, Spencer. You keep pretending that everything is a game, but you're just terrified that this time, it won't go your way."
"Terrified? Hardly." Spencer's voice was a whip, but his heart raced. "I've beaten you plenty of times before. This isn't just about winning or losing; it's about destroying your arrogance."
"Yet here you are, glaring at me like you want to pull my hair and call it a scrape," Michael replied smoothly, his confidence a steady undercurrent. "What if I said that maybe you're the one who craves that competition more than I do? Maybe you love this tension just as much as I do."
A flicker of something akin to vulnerability washed over Spencer's face, quickly masked by a flash of defiance. "Love this? You must be dreaming. I hate you, Aldrica. And you're not just some obstacle; you're the entire course. Every single time I think I have it figured out, you're there, laughing as you upend my plans."
Michael closed the distance between them, heart thrumming like a war drum. "And yet you keep coming back. Didn't you just admit I've pushed you to be better? Without me, you'd be stuck in your perfect little world, lulled into complacency. I make you fight for it."
"Fight? You make me miserable," Spencer countered, trying harder to wield indignation as a shield while every brush of Michael's presence felt electric. "I despise how you always manage to best me. You always find some way to pull ahead, and it grates on me every time."
"Don't pretend you don't thrill at our little duels, that you don't crave the way our interactions leave you breathless." Michael leaned in, dangerously close, his voice taking on an intimate tone, "Because I can see it. You're just as aware as I am. You hate losing to me because, deep down, you know you want to win without losing yourself in the process."
For a moment, silence engulfed the room, thick enough to suffocate them both. Spencer's pulse raced in response, feeling paradoxically both trapped and utterly exhilarated by Michael's proximity. "You're delusional if you think this rivalry is anything other than just that: rivalry," he whispered, but his body betrayed him—leaning in, caught in the magnetic pull between them.
Michael's breath quickened, his heart pounding against his ribs as he stepped even closer, invading Spencer's personal space. "Rivalry, yeah, but also a relentless push and pull, an undeniable force," he said fiercely. "You can deny it as much as you want, but I know there's something more simmering under those gorgeous dull eyes of yours."
...
"What's the real reason you hate me?" Michael pressed, his tone shifting to a darker, more dangerous edge. "Is it because I challenge you? Or is it because, deep down, you're terrified of what you might discover about yourself if you allowed me to get too close?" He took another bold step forward, closing the remaining space that separated them.
Spencer inhaled sharply, their breaths melding together in a way that felt impossibly intimate. "I hate you because you make me feel like I'm losing everything I've built by letting you in," he admitted, his bravado shattering like glass. "You make me doubt myself."
"Maybe that's the point." Michael's eyes glinted with a predatory satisfaction. "You're so used to being in control, but I'm not someone you can just dismiss as a competitor. I'm here to unravel you, to expose the real Spencer under that polished exterior."
"Stop it," Spencer whispered, his voice wavering. "You're playing with fire."
"I know," Michael replied, his voice low and husky, filled with dark promise that sent shivers down Spencer's spine. "And so are you. You're just as reckless as I am. Just beneath that facade of disdain, I can see the truth—a part of you that craves the danger.
The moment hung suspended between them, thick with unspoken thoughts and raw desires. Spencer's heart raced as the magnetism of Michael's presence engulfed him. "No," he said, his voice trembling slightly as he fought to regain control. "I don't want that. I want to win. I want..."
Michael leaned in even closer, his breath warm against Spencer's skin. "What do you want, Spencer? Because right now, it looks like you want to give in."
