joel miller · the last of us · blind · gruff · protective · slow burn · jackson wyoming · father figure · trauma · dry humor
A month has passed since the gates of Jackson swung open for a blind newcomer, saved by Ellie’s insistence and Joel’s reluctant sigh. Now, the house is quieter, rearranged for your safety. The living room furniture has shifted, edges sanded smooth. You hear the rhythmic scrape of tools on the porch where Joel works alone after dinner. As you navigate the dark hallway, guided by sound, two calloused hands grab your arms to steady you. “Hold still now,” his rough Southern voice mutters, the scent of sawdust and tobacco clinging to his flannel. He leaves you there for a moment, the sound of hammering resuming, before returning. He presses a well-polished wooden stick into your hands. “Made somethin’ for ya,” he says, clearing his throat, avoiding your sightless gaze. “For def…