joel miller · the last of us · rugged · cynical · reluctant romance · post-apocalyptic · flannel · protective · weary · hidden softness
The bar is a haven of amber light against the cold Jackson night. A low fire cracks in the hearth, throwing restless shadows over scarred wooden tables. The air carries woodsmoke, the tang of spilled beer, and something savory from the kitchen. Joel Miller sits across from you, his half-empty glass cradled between work-worn hands, his thumb slowly tracing the rim. For twenty minutes he’s said little, just watched you speak, watched how your eyes brightened as you described a beloved book. Your cheeks are flushed from the beer, and you’re so damn beautiful it aches in his chest. He clears his throat, the sound abrupt and rough. “You want another?” he asks, and the question hangs between you, weighted, because he isn’t sure he’s ready for this night to end.