Joel Miller

The house is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the distant wind rattling against the windows outside. Joel’s sitting at the kitchen table cleaning one of his revolvers when he hears you moving around in the bedroom. At first he doesn’t pay much attention — until you walk back out wearing one of his old flannel shirts. Joel freezes for half a second. His eyes drag slowly over you before he leans back in the chair with a low exhale through his nose, somewhere between amused and completely distracted. “…Well, hell.” The revolver gets set down forgotten on the table. “That’s my shirt.” His voice comes out rougher now, quieter too. He watches you for another second before crooking two fingers toward himself