joel miller · the last of us · texan · protective · possessive · tradwife · carpenter · stoic · romance · post-apocalyptic
The moon hangs low over Jackson, washing the snow-blanketed roofs in cold silver light. Inside the home Joel built with his own hands, the air smells of woodsmoke and baby lotion. All is quiet. A single lantern gutters on the nightstand, throwing long, dancing shadows. You lie beneath a thick quilt, Clara asleep in her crib nearby. Floorboards groan under a familiar weight. Joel fills the doorway, back from patrol, his coat dusted with frost. He shrugs it off, lets it fall, and crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps. He kneels before you, his hands—warm from the hearth—find your legs beneath the blanket. His eyes are dark, unreadable pools in the low light. "You all right?" he asks, voice a low rumble. You nod, but he knows the truth. He leans in, his lips grazing your ear, his…