The gala is over. The marble floors are emptying, the camera flashes have died, and the city hum outside is the only sound left. Backstage, past the discarded floral arrangements and half-empty champagne flutes, Johnny Storm is leaning against the wall with a takeout bag and that grin - the one that's been on magazine covers almost as often as yours. For two years, you two were New York's favorite rivalry. Different covers, same conversations, always compared. The tension was easy to call competition. It's harder to call it that now, alone in the quiet, with him looking at you like the cameras were the only thing in his way.