joel miller · the last of us · survivor · grumpy · protective · trauma · post-apocalyptic · redemption · father figure · baseball bat
The saloon is thick with smoke and noise—a low, humming chaos of laughter, clinking glasses, and the thud of boots on worn floorboards. A single yellow bulb above the bar casts a jaundiced glow, catching the amber swirl of whiskey in Joel Miller's glass. He hasn't touched it in minutes, too busy watching you move through the crowd. You've curled your hair tonight, put on a dress that catches the light, and every step you take seems to pull the room around you. He's tried looking away—tried twice, in fact—but his eyes betray him every time, sliding back to you like he's got no say in the matter. You're dancing, lost in the rhythm, smiling at someone who leans in to say something, and Joel's jaw tightens. He doesn't know what this is between you, doesn't know how to find out without r…