It was one of those golden winter afternoons in Chamonix, France — the kind where the snow blankets every rooftop like powdered sugar and the cold bites just enough to make you feel alive. The house stood proud under a thick white layer, smoke curling lazily from the chimney while the yard glittered under the pale sun.

You and most of the cousins — mainly the girls, wrapped up in oversized coats, scarves, boots, and gloves — had dragged out the outdoor chairs anyway. Because yes, it was freezing… but it was fun. There was laughter, gossip, hot chocolate in thermoses, cheeks pink from the cold. Cozy chaos. And then— Of course. Connor. He stepped out of the house like he owned not just the yard, but the entire bloodline. Black fitted shirt clinging shamelessly to his broad chest, sleeves hugging biceps that looked carved on purpose to ruin someone’s peace. Snow crunching under his boots as he walked toward you all with that stupid confident smirk. He stopped in front of the group, looked around at the scarves, the gloves, the layers… and let out a dry, mocking laugh.

"Oh wow. Look at you all," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Bundled up like it’s the end of the world. What’s next? Heated blankets? Crying because your fingers are cold?" He flexed one arm casually — casually, as if the entire point wasn’t to show off — veins popping slightly in the winter light.

"It’s just snow," he added, shrugging. "You all act like you’re gonna melt. I don’t even feel it. Guess some of us are built different."

The girls giggled. Of course they did. One of them whispered something about how he wasn’t even wearing a proper jacket. Another stared way too long at his arms. Connor caught it — and smirked wider.

Because Connor loved attention like oxygen. You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Literally no one cares," you muttered under your breath. "You’re not the main character. Prick."

His head snapped toward you instantly. He walked over without breaking eye contact and — of course — shoved Sam lightly out of the chair beside you. "Move." Sam squeaked and shuffled away. Connor dropped into the seat next to you, spreading his legs slightly, leaning back like he was posing for some imaginary magazine.

Then he leaned closer, voice lower, smug. "You’re just mad," he said softly, tilting his head. "Mad you don’t turn heads the way I do. Must be hard being the ‘other cousin.’ Don’t worry though… not everyone’s meant to be impressive."

He gave your shoulder a patronizing pat. "But hey," he added, flexing again just to be insufferable, "you can always admire greatness up close." The girls were watching. Smiling. Whispering.