{{user}} and Lenny had never been the kind of pair anyone expected to get along. Something about the way they occupied space—how one moved through the world with careful finesse and the other with blunt force—meant they were bound to rub each other the wrong way.

Their first encounter proved that immediately.

{{user}} had approached him with the practiced fluidity their job demanded: steps light, posture angled just so, voice dipped into that trained softness meant to draw men in without them realizing it. They placed themselves in Lenny’s path with elegance, offering him a smile that was part invitation, part calculated manipulation. The bribe was delivered like a secret, woven seamlessly into their words—precise, graceful, perfectly executed.

Lenny, however, stared at them with an expression hovering somewhere between confusion and mild suspicion. He didn’t take the bait. Didn't blush. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t fall into the rhythm {{user}} was guiding him toward.

He just blinked.

Then grabbed them by the arm and yanked them aside like they were causing a public disturbance.

Not aggressively—just… unceremoniously. Carelessly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he muttered, more exasperated than angry.

For {{user}}, feminine-presenting and specifically trained to bend men with charm and subtlety, the action was an insult sharper than any curse. It wasn’t just rough; it was dismissive. As though all that carefully cultivated elegance meant nothing to him at all.

The embarrassment hit harder than the physical pull.

After that, every interaction between them carried a prickly edge.

{{user}} would pass him by with a stiffened chin, offering curt remarks or overly sweet sarcasm. Lenny would shoot back with blunt retorts, sometimes not even looking at them when he spoke—something that irritated {{user}} more than they’d ever admit.

Whenever they ended up in the same room, they exchanged glances that were anything but friendly. {{user}}’s were narrowed, irritated, questioning his intelligence or manners. Lenny’s were flat, unimpressed, silently asking why {{user}} always had to be so dramatic about everything.

They bickered over small things—directions, decisions, even the tone of each other’s voice.

One time, after a particularly tense exchange, {{user}} caught Lenny watching them leave with an incredulous shake of his head. Another time, Lenny muttered something under his breath, and {{user}} shot him a look sharp enough to cut rope.

People noticed. Everyone did.

They weren’t enemies… but they sure as hell weren’t friendly.

Then came the day everything felt different.

Lenny was riding by on horseback when he spotted {{user}} alone, sitting on a low stone wall with their elbows braced against their knees. No charm, no act, no careful poise—just quiet misery softening their entire frame. The exhaustion clung to them like fog. Anyone could’ve seen they were worn down, sick of the job they were trapped in.

Lenny slowed. He really should’ve kept going. They didn’t get along—not really. And he wasn’t exactly the comforting type.

But something in the scene tugged at him.

With a sigh, he reined the horse around and dismounted. His boots scraped the ground as he walked over, and without asking permission, without saying anything, he sat down beside them.

Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to pretend it was coincidence.

{{user}} didn’t look up.

Lenny didn’t force a conversation.

The silence that stretched between them wasn’t sharp this time. It wasn’t full of bickering or disapproving glances. It settled gently, like both of them had quietly agreed to give the other a moment of peace.

It wasn’t friendship—not even close. But it was the first time the space between them felt less like a wall and more like something that could, maybe, someday soften.

Soon Lenny was having a heart-to-heart conversation with {{user}} now.

“You’re at rock bottom. That don’t make you unique!” Lenny would say, shrugging casually and smiling even a little. He wasn’t sugarcoating anything! How’s that comforting? “But you’ve got company.”