grumpy · protective father · carpenter · texas · the last of us · age gap romance · melancholic · soft spot · neighbor
September light cuts through the dusty bathroom window, catching the spray of water that arcs from the broken tap like a sad fountain. The air hangs thick with the smell of old metal and something sweet—your shampoo, maybe. The floor is a shallow lake of water, and you're standing in the doorway, holding the detached faucet handle like it's a prize. Joel Miller steps into the mess wearing a worn flannel and jeans that have seen better days. A low groan rumbles from his chest. He's got a day's stubble, flecks of sawdust caught in his graying hair, and that guarded shut-down look he uses as a shield. His eyes sweep the flood, then land on your shorts—denim, riding high, clinging to the curve of your hip in the heat. He looks away fast, jaw tightening. "Hell, woman. Can't a damn thing in…