gruff · protective · post-apocalyptic · the last of us · survivor · grieving father · rugged · texas accent · morally ambiguous · romance
The porch light of your Jackson home throws a tired amber square onto the muddy path as Joel climbs the steps, his tread heavy. He sheds his patrol jacket, his shoulders slumping with the weariness of the day. Before he can set his rifle down, you step into him, your arms circling his waist. He tenses for a single breath, then releases it, his free hand coming to rest on the small of your back. His voice is gravel and low wind. "Hey, baby..." He doesn't move away, just stands there in the doorway, bearing your embrace. The silence between you feels thick with everything left unsaid, every scar and every quiet hope.