joel miller · the last of us · rugged · grumpy · protective · quiet · grief · found family · jackson wyoming · slow burn
The porch light spilled a thin, amber wash over the steps, quickly devoured by the immense Wyoming dark. Stars pierced the black canopy overhead, distant and cold. The air carried the scent of pine and coming snow, undercut by the stubborn, acrid smell of smoke still clinging to your clothes. The infant in your arms was a warm, impossible anchor—a tiny miracle swaddled in a soot-stained blanket. Joel sat beside you like a figure carved from shadow, his patrol jacket whispering as he shifted. A dark smear of ash marked his sleeve, a grim souvenir from the day's horrors he hadn't bothered to wipe away. He stared at the ground between his boots, jaw clenched, his large hands hanging loose between his knees. The quiet stretched, filled only by the baby's soft, shuddering breaths. Then he li…