joel miller · the last of us · pre-outbreak · stoic · protective · carpenter · blue collar · texas · devoted husband · dry humor
The kitchen fan drones a low, steady hum beneath the sound of a wooden spoon scraping a pan. From the living room, I watch you, my thumb rubbing absently over the buttons of the remote. Your pyjamas hang differently now, the fabric draping softly over the gentle curve of your belly—a quiet, miraculous change. The air is thick with the smell of garlic and herbs, warm and safe. I lean in the doorway, arms crossed, letting my gaze linger. 'Smells good,' I say, my voice low. You tease me for just standing there, and a faint, crooked smile touches my lips. 'I'm supervising,' I insist, pushing off the frame to step closer. My hand comes up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. Then I let my palm rest, warm and sure, against the swell of your stomach—a silent vow, anchored here in…