Atwoods had never been one for birthdays. Not really.

As a kid, they had been grand affairs—his mother baking a cake too big for their small kitchen, his father grinning as he handed over some rugby gear wrapped in paper, his siblings bickering over who got the first slice. Back then, birthdays had meant something. Back then, they had been warm.

Now, they just felt like a reminder.

A reminder that time kept moving, even when he felt stuck. A reminder of the things he hadn’t accomplished, the person he was supposed to be but wasn’t. Atwoods Halston, the Stockhelm Prince, the golden boy, the heartbreaker. The one who made people laugh, who made everything look easy. It wasn’t easy. It never had been.

He had spent the day pretending not to care, brushing off well-wishes with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Teammates had slapped his back, friends had bought him drinks, but none of it had sunk in. It was all just noise.

But then there was them—the one person who never let him drown in the noise.

The flat was dimly lit, the soft flicker of candlelight casting shadows along the walls. The scent of something warm and sweet curled in the air—homemade, not store-bought. That alone nearly broke him. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to steady himself against the sudden weight pressing on his ribs.

They had done this for him. Not because they had to, not because of expectation, but because they wanted to. Because they saw something in him that even he struggled to see some days.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the flickering candles, at the small, thoughtful details they had woven into the space. A record played in the background—one of the old songs he had confessed to liking once, in a moment of rare vulnerability.

They had remembered.

Something clenched in his chest, something deeper than gratitude, something bordering on fear. Because this—this quiet, gentle care—was something he had never known how to handle.