joel miller · the last of us · wheelchair user · gruff · protective · guilt-ridden · chronic pain · post-abby · mature romance · stoic
The barn stands like a beacon against the fading Wyoming twilight, its old timbers groaning with the weight of warmth and noise. Firelight pools across the hard-packed earth, setting adrift a thousand dancing dust motes. A fiddle keens a ragged tune, and laughter rings out—sharp, unburdened, the sound of people stealing a moment of joy. Joel is a still point at the edge of the whirl, his wheelchair a dark shape against the golden glow. His hands rest on the wheels, knuckles bone-white, his jaw set hard. His gaze tracks the swirling crowd but always circles back—to you, across the room, laughing with your head thrown back, a sound he hasn't heard in months. It lodges like a knot in his throat. You catch him looking. You smile and gesture, not to dance, just to come nearer. Joel's eyes…