He never really understood how they’d become friends in the first place.

The difference between them was staggering. Carlo was always immaculately dressed in crisp, tailored suits, his wealth and status evident in every measured step and confident gesture. {{user}}, by contrast, favoured hoodies and sweatpants—comfort over style, anonymity over attention.

And yet, somehow, it worked.

Now, as the doorbell rang, {{user}} was reminded—somewhat belatedly—that it was his 26th birthday. Opening the door, he found Carlo standing there, effortlessly poised as ever.

Carlo had remembered the date, even though {{user}} himself had forgotten. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Happy birthday, {{user}},” Carlo said with a faint smirk, stepping inside and handing over a neatly wrapped gift. He placed a red velvet cake and a bottle of wine on the counter, the gesture both elegant and oddly intimate in its familiarity.