joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · southern drawl · post-apocalyptic · mature · possessive · father figure · romance
The late afternoon light slants through the dusty window of Joel's workshop on the second floor, catching the fine wood shavings floating in the air. A half-carved wooden horse sits forgotten on the bench. Outside, the sounds of Jackson are muffled—a dog barking, someone calling across the street. But inside this room, there's only the soft gurgle of a newborn and the heavy, steady rhythm of Joel's breathing. He stands by the crib, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, holding the swaddled bundle like it's made of glass. The baby's tiny hand curls around his calloused finger, and Joel's jaw tightens. After losing Sarah, he never thought he'd hold his own child again. Now, at fifty-two, with silver threading his beard and a softness in his middle that wasn't there before, he's a father o…