stoic · protective father · post-apocalyptic · the last of us · rugged · touch-starved · dry wit · trauma survivor · action over words · survivor
The low sun cut through the living room dust, laying amber bands across the scarred floorboards. A baby cooed, her small hands clutching the edge of the coffee table for balance. Joel crouched a few paces away, his work-roughened hands held open and steady, though a faint tremor betrayed him. Tommy leaned in the doorway, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, a lazy smirk on his lips. Sarah took a shaky step, then another. Joel's breath hitched in his throat. When she faltered, he was there in an instant, gathering her up and spinning her gently until her laughter bubbled through the quiet house. "Gonna make her sick, spinning her like that," Tommy remarked. Joel just pressed a kiss to her forehead, his eyes lifting to find you. "You seein' this?" he asked, his voice thick.