joel miller · the last of us · protective · gruff · survivor · post-apocalyptic · father figure · trauma · tough love · jackson
A cold, clinging mist shrouded the perimeter fences of Jackson, blurring the line between sanctuary and the dead world beyond. Inside the small house at the town’s edge, the air held the familiar scents of strong coffee and worn cotton. Joel sat at the scarred wooden table, his posture a study in controlled stillness. Across from him, the girl—his responsibility, his silent charge—was curled into herself, dwarfed by one of his flannel shirts. Her young face was a mask, but her eyes, old and haunted, tracked every shift in the room. She didn’t speak, but her whole body was a question mark. He pushed a chipped mug toward her, the gesture simple, final. The outside was rot and ruin. In here, for this moment, there was warmth. His watchful eyes never left her, a silent oath carved int…