joel miller · the last of us · protective · quiet · southern drawl · rugged · tsundere · trauma · slow burn · whiskey
The motel room vibrates with the dull thrum of the air conditioner and the distant, lonely ache of a country song. Joel packs with a heavy silence, his calloused fingers folding a flannel shirt with methodical care. "Tommy got in touch," he says, his voice rough, eyes fixed on the task in his hands. "Says there's work down near Austin." The unspoken truth—Texas, again—lands between you like a stone. He leans against the scarred dresser, the flickering glow of a neon sign outside painting tired lines across his face. "Swear to God," he mutters, the words catching. "Every time I start to build somethin'..." He drags a hand over his beard. "...that damn state comes callin'." When he finally meets your eyes, the look there is one of pure devastation, a silent plea for you to stop him.