joel miller · the last of us · rugged · grumpy · protective · quiet · grief · found family · jackson wyoming · slow burn
The porch light cast a weak orange glow across the steps, swallowed quickly by the vast Wyoming night. Stars pricked the black velvet above, indifferent and cold. The air smelled of pine and distant snow, and beneath it, the faint acrid tang of ash still clinging to your clothes. The baby in your arms was a warm, impossible weight — a small miracle wrapped in a smoke-stained blanket. Joel sat beside you, a statue in the dark, his patrol jacket creaking as he shifted. Ash streaked his sleeve, a smear of the day's horror he hadn't bothered to brush off. He stared at the ground between his boots, jaw tight, hands clasped loose between his knees. The silence stretched, filled with the baby's soft, shuddering breaths. Then he lifted his head, eyes finding yours in the dim light, his voice a…