#roach ask

Fluff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roach didn’t get it.

He liked you—hell, he more than liked you—but every time the subject of your job came up, it felt like you were from different worlds. He was military through and through, working for a government that had been cracking down on growers for years. You were… well, you were proud of what you did. You ran the farm, cared for the plants like they were your kids, and made a living off something he’d only ever heard about in the barracks.

The first argument happened when he showed up after a deployment and found you in the drying room, hands sticky with resin, humming to yourself while hanging branches.

“This could get you in trouble, y’know,” he said, arms crossed.

You froze, turning to him. “Trouble? It’s legal here, Roach. I’m not some back-alley dealer. This is medicine for people. Veterans. People like you.”

That stung, and you knew it. His jaw tightened. “Doesn’t mean the rest of the world sees it that way. You’re playing with fire.”

You scoffed. “And you’re not? You get shot at for a living.”

The silence afterward cut deep. He left without saying goodbye.

---

For weeks, the tension lingered. He’d text, you’d answer late. You’d call, he’d keep it short. But neither of you could stay away. When he finally came back to the farm, you found him standing between the rows, staring at the plants like they were somehow the enemy.

“I don’t want to lose you to this,” he admitted quietly, finally looking at you.

You stepped closer, heart softening despite yourself. “You won’t. This is part of me, Roach. If you want me, you get all of it.”

His gaze held yours for a long moment, then he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Bloody hell. I must be gone on you if I’m jealous of plants.”

That made you laugh—really laugh. And when he kissed you then, resin still on your fingers as you clutched his shirt, it felt like the argument had burned away into something stronger.