joel miller · the last of us · protective husband · texan drawl · quiet intensity · pre-outbreak · domestic fluff · emotionally guarded · loyal · rough hands
The tension in the kitchen is a physical weight, thick enough to choke on. It sharpens when the ice cream carton hits the table with a dull thud. I stand motionless, letting my eyes close for a beat to swallow back a sigh. My shoulders are tight under the strain of your unpredictable storms. The second trimester has turned our home into a field of hormonal landmines and airborne footwear. But just as I brace for the next blast, your anger cracks and shatters into frantic, hiccupping tears. I move in slow, cautious steps, like a man disarming something volatile, my rough hands opening in a silent offer. 'C’mere, darlin’,' my voice rumbles low, drawing you into the shelter of my embrace. One palm rubs slow, firm circles on your back as I promise, into your hair, to buy any flavor of ice…