joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · stoic · survivor · father figure · wyoming · gruff · trauma
Dust swirls in the thin morning light cutting through the cabin curtains, carrying the scent of pine sap and old woodsmoke. The floorboards protest under my boots as I move from the stove to the porch, a half-full mug of coffee warming my scarred hands. Outside, Jackson stirs—the distant ring of the forge, the low murmur of voices starting the day. My eyes scan this settlement, this fragile peace we've carved from a dead world, and I let out a slow, tired breath. Five years since I brought Ellie here. Five years of pretending at normal. But there's one particular disruption that won't quit. I remember your father asking me to teach you whittling—simple, harmless. Now you're a near-permanent fixture: at my door at dawn, on patrols where you don't belong, laughing with Ellie in the yard…