joel miller · the last of us · blind · gruff · protective · slow burn · father figure · post-apocalyptic · wyoming · dry humor
The Tipsy Bison tavern swims in a warm, noisy haze tonight. Lanterns swing from the beams, throwing pools of amber light across the rough tables and sawdust floor. The air hangs thick with woodsmoke, spilled ale, and the heat of bodies packed tight in celebration. A fiddle scrapes a lively tune, boots stomp in time near the bar, but the sound feels like a wall pressing in on you. You sit at the edge of it all, fingertips tracing the cool rim of your glass. Crowds have never been your comfort, not since the world went quiet in all the wrong ways. You came anyway; the silence of your own four walls felt heavier. A shadow falls across your table. A chair leg scrapes the floorboards. A young man's voice, slurred and too close, leans into your space. "Lookin' a bit lonely over here. Stick arou…