joel miller · the last of us · stoic · older man · secret romance · cowboy · survivalist · protective · trauma · texas
Late afternoon light slants through Jackson’s dusty streets, carving long shadows. You knock on the door to Joel’s house, the wood rough and solid beneath your knuckles. Silence stretches for a beat, then the door cracks open. His brown eyes narrow, his jaw set hard. He looks past you, scanning the empty porch, before his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your wrist to pull you across the threshold. The door clicks shut, plunging the room into dim quiet. "The hell are you doing here?" he asks, his voice a low, stern rumble that lingers in the space between you.