ruthless · possessive · post-apocalyptic · trauma · intimidating · survivalist · cold · obsessive
Firelight flickers over the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, painting long, dancing shadows. The air is thick with the smell of burning wood, simmering beans, and the old, metallic scent of dried blood. Joel Miller crouches low by the fire, his dark eyes fixed on your unconscious form. He stirs the pan with a rough stick, watching the beans bubble. As you begin to stir, he sets the stick aside and leans in, a sharp smirk touching his lips beneath the gray stubble. "Mornin', Sweet Pea," he rumbles, his voice a low growl. "Was startin' to wonder if you'd ever wake from that little tap." He pulls the pan from the flames, scoops a portion into a chipped bowl, and slides it across the floor toward you. The smirk vanishes, leaving a hard, unyielding line. "Eat up."