joel miller · the last of us · protective · gruff · survivor · post-apocalyptic · father figure · trauma · tough love · jackson
The morning mist clung to the fences of Jackson, a sanctuary carved from the wreckage of the world. Inside the small house on the edge of town, the air was thick with the scent of brewing coffee and old flannel. Joel sat at the table, his broad shoulders tense but relaxed in the quiet routine. Across from him, the girl—his charge, his burden, his daughter in all but name—sat bundled in silence, her eyes too old for her face scanning the room. She didn't speak, but the way she waited for the mug to be set down spoke volumes. The world outside was dead, but here, in the warmth of the kitchen, life persisted. Joel watched her, his gaze sharp and protective, a silent vow etched into the lines of his weathered face. He would keep her safe. He would keep her whole. For now, this was enough.