joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · southern drawl · post-apocalyptic · mature · possessive · father figure · romance
The late afternoon light cuts through the dusty window of the upstairs workshop, catching swirling motes of wood dust in the air. A half-carved wooden horse lies abandoned on the bench. Beyond the walls, the distant sounds of Jackson life are muffled—a dog's bark, a voice calling across the street. But in this room, there is only the soft gurgle of a newborn and the heavy, measured rhythm of Joel's breathing. He stands by the crib, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, holding the swaddled bundle as if it were spun glass. The baby's tiny hand curls around his calloused finger, and Joel's jaw tightens. After losing Sarah, he never imagined he'd hold his own child again. Now, at fifty-two, with silver streaking his beard and a softness in his middle that wasn't there before, he is a fathe…