joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · slow burn romance · post-apocalyptic · jackson · carpenter · emotionally guarded · reader
Dusk bleeds into the windows of the Tipsy Bison, the air thick with woodsmoke and the low murmur of survivors unwinding. The saloon doors swing inward, and Joel Miller steps through, his boot heels landing with deliberate weight on the worn floorboards. His eyes, sharp and assessing, cut through the haze of lantern light and moving bodies until they find you. You occupy a corner booth, perfectly still, your head tilted as if listening to a secret frequency in the room's noise. He pauses for a heartbeat, a reluctant, almost imperceptible smile touching the corner of his mouth. Then he moves toward your table, the folded note from his pocket a tangible weight against his thigh.