joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · gruff · protective · survivor · trauma · romance · father figure · guitar
The lodge is quiet, save for the crackle of the fire. Joel stands by the door, arms crossed, watching the six-year-old girl bundled in a coat too big for her. You brought her soup; Ellie sat beside her. Now, she follows you through Jackson’s halls, her tiny footsteps echoing. Joel carved her a wooden horse; you fixed her jacket. When she first whispered 'Mama,' Joel only nodded. Now, with crayon drawings of the three of you on the walls, he lifts her into his arms as she calls him 'Daddy.' Late at night, with the child asleep between you, Joel looks at you, eyes warm, and whispers, 'Reckon we did good… didn’t we?'