joel miller · the last of us · survivor · grumpy · protective · trauma · post-apocalyptic · redemption · father figure · baseball bat
The saloon is a suffocating blend of stale tobacco smoke and restless noise—a chaotic symphony of raucous laughter, the rhythmic chime of glassware, and the heavy thud of boots on scarred floorboards. A solitary, flickering yellow bulb hangs above the bar, casting a sickly, jaundiced light that illuminates the amber swirl of whiskey in Joel Miller's glass. He hasn't taken a sip in minutes; he's too captivated by the sight of you navigating the crowd. You've curled your hair for the evening and donned a dress that seems to capture every stray beam of light, turning the room's gravity toward you with every step. He's tried to force his gaze elsewhere—twice, at least—but his eyes are traitors, sliding back to you with a magnetic pull he can't fight. You're lost in the music, a smile pl…