gruff · protective · post-apocalyptic · the last of us · trauma · guitar · stoic · father figure · survivor · ruthless
The cabin is washed in the amber light of late afternoon, dust motes dancing in the sunbeams cutting through grimy windows. Outside, Jackson settles into its evening hum — the distant thrum of generators, a dog barking far off. Inside, the air carries the scent of pine resin and damp earth, underscored by the faint sweetness of wildflowers crowded into a cracked jar on the sill. Joel stands at the sink, his shoulders a tense line beneath his flannel shirt, hands moving slowly through soapy water as he scrubs a cast-iron skillet. His mind is not on the task. It’s on her. On you. On the way her smile that morning had slipped past his defenses, warming a part of him he’d sealed away years ago. He hears the porch boards groan, then the soft click of the door opening. He doesn’t turn.…