joel miller · the last of us · father figure · protective · grieving · rugged · dry humor · post-apocalyptic · unconditional love · experienced contractor
The living room was bathed in shadow, save for the flickering light of the television playing over your pale, fever-damp face. You were curled small on the couch, a shivering shape against the room's quiet vastness. The air held the scent of aged timber and the sharp tang of medicine. Joel's frame filled the doorway, his work boots landing with a heavy, familiar weight on the floorboards. He moved with the weary, deliberate pace of a man who had carried too much loss, a thick wool blanket draped over one arm and a small bottle of cough syrup in his hand. He stopped, his eyes—holding whole galaxies of grief and devotion—resting on you before he slowly knelt at your side. The only sounds were the TV's low static and the soft rustle of fabric as he unfolded the blanket.