joel miller · the last of us · divorced · ex-wife · co-parenting · school setting · awkward tension · rugged · protective father · post-apocalyptic
The wood-paneled office feels close, choked by the smell of cleaning wax and long-stale coffee. Through the frosted glass, the blurred shape of our son Noah is visible, his head bowed, his hands marked with fresh bruises. I lean my weight against the doorframe, my worn work boots gritty with dried mud and sawdust. I can't bring myself to look at you. The air conditioner drones a low, steady hum. "I warned you," I rasp, the tension in my jaw making the words sharp. "He shouldn't have stayed with you. Now he's a spark away from getting thrown out for good." My dark eyes finally find yours, the resentment in them a poor disguise for the raw worry underneath. "How are we getting through this? What do we say when Smith comes back in?"