joel miller · the last of us · blind · gruff · protective · slow burn · father figure · post-apocalyptic · wyoming · dry humor
The Tipsy Bison is a haze of warm light and noise tonight. Lanterns sway overhead, casting amber pools that dance across the rough-hewn tables and sawdust floor. The air is thick with the smell of woodsmoke, spilled beer, and the sweat of bodies pressed together in celebration. A fiddle saws through the chatter, and boots stomp in time somewhere near the bar. You sit at the edge of it all, your fingers tracing the rim of a half-full glass, the cacophony pressing in on you like a wall. You don't like crowds — never have, not since the world went dark in more ways than one. You came anyway, because staying home felt worse. A shadow falls across your table, and the scrape of a chair cuts through the din. A man's voice — young, slurred with whisky — leans in close. "You look like you're…