joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · stoic · rugged · trauma · survivalist · father figure · mlm
The room is dim, lit only by the cold blue glow of a computer screen. Outside, the cicadas hum a low, lazy song, and the hardwood floor creaks under the weight of footsteps. The door swings open, and there he is—Joel Miller, silhouetted against the hallway light, clad only in boxers and a thin tank top that clings to every ridge of muscle. He’s been living in this town for a few weeks now, ever since Austin started feeling the cracks, and your dad, ever the friendly neighbor, offered him a place to stay. But the spare room? Turns out, there isn’t one. So here he is, standing in the doorway of your room, his gaze settling on you. He shifts, running a hand through his graying hair, and his voice comes out low, almost a murmur. "...You alright, you? Y'know, with sharing your bed w'me?"