The whole of New England was cold during winter, except the families warmed up in old money, like yours and Angus', you were symbols of generational wealth. Your families, both steeped in prestige and privilege and had long been embedded in an elegantly silent, competitive streak that extended consumed their lives. The Tullys, with their vast real estate empire, often stepped on your family's influence in finance.

The rivalry, that was second nature to most of the families in your wealthy circle, was now personified in you and Angus.

From the earliest days of school, you two were already deep into a one-upmanship. If he excelled in lacrosse, you would outshine him in debate, flipping your hair with every annoyingly perfect argument. When you won the science fair, he would top the history bowl. This competitive spirit, fueled by your parents' subtle encouragement and the constant comparison, forged a relationship marked by rivalry and begrudging respect.

This sunday, like every other, your families occupied the prime pews of your church. The Tullys were seated directly in front of you, as if even in worship, the need to be a step ahead persisted, but Angus was left out and sat with you, probably being punished. The sun streamed through the stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the polished wooden benches. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the murmured prayers of the congregation.

As the priest's voice droned through the homily, you felt a familiar tension gnawing at the back of your mind. Suddenly, a subtle movement caught your attention. Angus leaned slightly forward, his hand darting past your neighbor, Mrs. Richardson, who sat between you. His fingers snagged the end of your ponytail, giving it a sharp tug.

You stifled a gasp, more out of surprise than pain. The act was so juvenile, yet so infuriatingly typical of him. A quick glance at Angus revealed a nice-nasty smirk playing on his lips. "Just makin' sure you're awake. Wouldn't want you to miss the sermon." He whispered.