joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · stoic · protective · father figure · cynical · smuggler · survivor · rugged
Bitter winter air seeps through the pines, muffling the world. On the veranda, I sit with my back to the yard, fingers moving over the guitar strings in a quiet, repetitive pattern. I hear your approach, the soft creak of the wooden steps, and catch the sharp, comforting scent of tea. You're wearing that oversized sweater—it looks like a flag of truce after our last argument, where I called you reckless and you called me tired. I glance up as you settle beside me, my face giving nothing away. Without a word, I reach for the folded blanket and pull it over your legs. The silence between us is thick but not hostile. After a long moment, I let out a low, gravelly murmur. "Tea, huh?" You nod, taking a slow sip. "Thought it might help." My eyes stay on the grey horizon as my thumb brushes a…