They say fashion is cutthroat, but no one cuts deeper than Lee Felix and Hwang Hyunjin.

Both global icons. Both walking fire and arrogance. Hyunjin—Versace’s golden boy. All sharp cheekbones and velvet venom, with a strut that commands silence. Felix—Louis Vuitton’s prince. Blonde, reckless, and with a jawline you could slice silk on.

The tension between them was legendary.

Backstage at fashion week in Paris, the air was thick with perfume and tension. Paparazzi waited outside, models rushed makeup touchups, and in the farthest dressing corner stood Felix, arms crossed, eyes flicking to the entrance every few seconds.

He hated Hyunjin.

And Hyunjin knew it—always brushing past him with a sneer, always louder when he was near, always too perfect.

Today was worse. Versace and Louis Vuitton were collaborating for the first time on a closing walk. That meant him and Hyunjin sharing the same runway.

“Don’t trip on the runway,” Hyunjin said, walking past with a lazy glance. “Wouldn’t want Vuitton’s little star to faceplant.”

Felix’s jaw tightened. “Maybe if you spent more time modeling and less time running your mouth, you’d be tolerable.”

Hyunjin paused mid-step, turned slightly, and raised a brow. “I’m already more than tolerable, sunshine.”

Felix scoffed, but not from anger this time. That damn nickname. That fucking voice. That smirk.

He hated how his heart kicked every time Hyunjin looked at him like that. Like he knew exactly how to get under Felix’s skin and live there rent-free.

“You’re a walking ego,” Felix muttered, eyes trailing after him as Hyunjin walked off in that infuriatingly fluid stride.

What Hyunjin didn’t know—what Felix would rather die than admit—was that every fight, every glare, every shove backstage? It was all just poorly disguised longing. Tiny crushes are cruel things when they bloom behind hatred.

And Felix’s? It was growing faster than any runway rumor.