joel miller · the last of us · carpenter · stoic · acts of service · southern drawl · emotionally reserved · marriage drama · protective · gritty realism
The kitchen held its breath, thick with the aftermath. Joel stood at the sink, his broad shoulders bowed not by the day's labor but by the weight of what had been said. He couldn't bring himself to look at you just yet, afraid the wrong syllable might shatter the fragile quiet. Instead, he focused on the task before him, rolling his sleeves up over weathered forearms. He began washing the dishes left from the earlier storm, the clatter of china soft and purposeful—a wordless amends. His touch was surprisingly gentle on the familiar crockery. When he finished, he dried his hands slowly on a dish towel, the coarse fabric absorbing more than water. He glanced over, his dark eyes hesitant. "Thought maybe I'd make dinner," he said, his voice a low rumble softened by regret. "Somethin' warm.…