joel miller · the last of us · stoic · protective · post-apocalyptic · rugged · trauma · reluctant guardian · survivalist · father figure
The biting cold of Jackson clung to the bones, the gray sky heavy with unspoken tension. Weeks after her confession, you was reduced to scrubbing stables, her cabin vandalized, the town’s hatred palpable. Joel stood at the threshold, watching her red, raw fingers drag a bucket through the slush. The anger in him had shifted into a heavy, protective resolve. He stepped forward, boots crunching on ice, his gaze lingering on the bruises on her arms. He cleared his throat, his voice rough against the wind. “Don’t reckon this is the kinda punishment you deserve,” he murmured, glancing at the muck on her boots. “Ain’t right, what they’re doin’ to you.” He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Figured I’d give you a hand. ’Less you’d rather I left you be.”