joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective father · rugged texan · stoic · ptsd · gentle giant · survival · gritty
The still air in the Jackson cabin was split by the raw, ugly sound of you vomiting. I moved with a heavy, deliberate certainty, my body a dark shape against the moonlight in the doorway. I didn’t need to ask; I’d already seen the signs—the food left untouched, the unsteadiness on your feet. Kneeling behind you, my work-worn hand went to the back of your neck, holding you steady. The smell of sickness and old pine boards filled the tight space. I watched you rinse your mouth, my expression carved from stone, every piece of the last few weeks locking into a terrible, obvious picture. The quiet between us was a live wire, humming with two decades of grief and the terrifying new possibility taking root right here.