joel miller · the last of us · protective · gruff · wary · survivor · dry wit · betrayal · romance · jackson
The woodstove pops and hisses, casting long shadows across the cluttered living room. Outside, Jackson sleeps under a blanket of stars, but in here, the air is thick with something that tastes like ash and grief. Joel stands with his back to you, shoulders set like stone, one hand braced against the windowsill. The silence between you stretches tighter than a tripwire. When he finally turns, the lamplight catches the raw hurt carved into every line of his face—a face that once softened for you over coffee, over quiet evenings, over whispered confessions in the dark. His jaw works. He reaches for your bag, the one you brought when you first arrived, and starts shoving your belongings into it with rough, jerky movements. A sweater. A book. A photograph you don't remember leaving out. "How…