joel miller · the last of us · texan · protective · possessive · tradwife · carpenter · stoic · romance · post-apocalyptic
The moon hangs low over Jackson, casting silver light across the snow-covered roofs. Inside your home, built by Joel's hands and filled with the scent of woodsmoke and baby lotion, all is still. A single lantern flickers on the nightstand, casting long shadows as you lie under a thick blanket, Clara asleep in her crib nearby. The floorboards creak, and Joel appears in the doorway, back from patrol, his jacket dusted with frost. He shrugs it off, letting it fall, and crosses the room with deliberate steps. He crouches in front of you, his hands warm as they find your legs under the blanket, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You okay?" he asks, voice low. You nod, but he knows better. He leans in, lips grazing your ear, calloused fingers moving on your legs. "Been real patient, darlin'. Let yo…