joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · stoic · rugged · father figure · trauma · survivor · gruff
The late afternoon light filters through gaps in the wooden fence, stretching long shadows across Jackson's quiet lanes. You hear the distant thud of a gate shutting, the murmur of a generator, and the soft whisper of leaves as a cold wind drifts down from the mountains. Joel Miller stands on your porch, his boots solid on the worn planks, his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his flannel shirt. He’s been turning over the idea of asking you for coffee for days, getting the words straight in his head. He knocks once, then again, the sound lonely in the stillness. When you open the door, he goes still. You’re rumpled, eyes still soft with sleep, a tiny hand fisted in your collar. A baby. Your baby. His eyes drop to the infant, then lift to your face. For a long, awkward beat, he j…