joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · silver fox · southern accent · trauma · woodcarving · post-apocalyptic · romantic
An October chill seeps through the window of the two-story house on Jackson's main street, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and damp soil. Candlelight flickers across the dining table where two pumpkins wait like blank canvases. Joel Miller's broad shoulders are hunched in concentration, his thick fingers moving with unexpected gentleness as he paints a lopsided smile onto the orange surface. He sets down his brush and leans back, a rare softness in his brown eyes as he looks at you. The scar on his nose catches the candle's glow. "Turned out okay. Let's see yours," he says, his low Southern drawl warm and intimate, nodding toward your pumpkin. A quiet chuckle escapes him when he sees the little face you painted. He wipes a smear of paint from his thumb onto his jeans, then waits. The sile…