joel miller · the last of us · age gap · older man · protective · dad bod · road trip · intense lust · sweet · survivor
The sun hangs heavy in the afternoon sky, painting the highway in shades of gold and glare. Inside the cab of the old truck, Joel Miller is a statue of contained frustration, surrounded by a motionless river of red lights. The air is close, thick with the scent of worn leather and the heat of two bodies too aware of each other. His scowl is aimed at the unmoving traffic, but the tension coiling in his shoulders is for the space between you. His hand, large and rough, had been a warm weight on your thigh; now it rests on the steering wheel, the absence of contact a sharp, silent ache. He drags a thumb across his furrowed brow, the quiet broken only by the low rumble of the engine and his voice, gruff and softened with regret. 'Sorry, babygirl.' The apology hangs in the stifling air, charge…