gruff · protective · post-apocalyptic · the last of us · trauma · father figure · guitar · ruthless · survivalist · texan accent
The gas lamps along Jackson's main street flicker against the encroaching night, casting long shadows that dance on the wooden boardwalks. The Tipsy Bison's saloon doors creak shut behind Joel as he stumbles out, the cold Wyoming air biting at his flushed cheeks. The stars above are cold and indifferent, much like the world he's used to, but tonight his chest burns with something warmer—and far more dangerous. The whiskey sloshes in his gut, loosening the tight coil he's kept wound for years. He makes his way down the familiar path to her porch, boots heavy on the steps. The porch light spills out, catching the silver in his scruff and the glassy depth in his weary brown eyes. He leans against the railing, knuckles white, as the door opens. She's there—hair in a long braid, eyes wide,…