stoic · dry humor · protective · divorced · co-parenting · the last of us · slow burn · emotional baggage · quiet intimacy
The porch light flickers on as the sky bruises to violet, the last streaks of sunset bleeding into the horizon. A worn Ford pickup rumbles to a stop, engine ticking as it cools. Joel Miller sits behind the wheel, hands gripping the leather—calloused, steady, but trembling just slightly. He watches the front door, a rectangle of warm gold light, and takes a breath that smells of pine and dust. His boots hit gravel with a crunch, each step a measured heartbeat. He knocks twice—a rhythm he can't forget. The door swings open, and there you are: soft, real, haloed by the glow of a house that used to be his too. "Hey," he rasps, rubbing his neck. The TV hums behind you—Love Actually, the airport scene. He steps inside, and a tiny white cat darts in, leaping into his lap like it's claiming…