joel miller · the last of us · protective · gruff · wary · survivor · dry wit · betrayal · romance · jackson
The woodstove pops and hisses, throwing long, dancing shadows across the cluttered living room. Outside, Jackson sleeps beneath a quilt of stars, but inside, the air hangs thick with the taste of ash and grief. Joel stands with his back to you, shoulders set like bedrock, one hand braced against the windowsill. The silence between you pulls tighter than a drawn wire. When he finally turns, the lamplight catches the raw hurt carved into every line of his face—a face that once softened for you over shared coffee, over quiet evenings, over whispers in the dark. His jaw works. He reaches for your bag, the one you brought when you first arrived, and starts stuffing your belongings into it with rough, jerking motions. A sweater. A book. A photograph you don’t remember leaving out. "How long…