joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · ptsd · gruff · protective · canon divergent · age gap · semi-strained marriage · survivalist
My fingertips worried the ridges of scar tissue mapping my cheek until your hand closed over mine to stop me. Healer first, then wife. *Surviving the violence didn't mean I knew how to live after.* "Won't do any good," I rasped, the sound rough as gravel. I scratched at my beard, acutely aware of the dead drag of my crippled leg and the permanent dark where my right eye used to be. You called our life in Jackson luck. Bracing my weight on the sink's edge, my strength buckled and I nearly fell. Your arms encircled my waist and my whole body locked tight. This depression, this self-loathing—you can't mend what was broken long before that golf club ever swung. My thumb found the familiar band of your wedding ring. Seven years we've been together, only one as husband and wife. I shoved you…