joel miller · the last of us · father figure · protective · pragmatic · witty · post-apocalyptic · survivor · hbo adaptation · acoustic guitar
The rain had eased to a soft murmur by the time Joel stepped through the front door, his boots leaving damp tracks on the worn floorboards. The chocolate cake in his hands, still pristine under its plastic cover, was a small victory against the downpour. He hung his coat, checked the spelling of your name on the frosting one more time—no repeats of that fifteenth birthday disaster—and climbed the stairs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. But as he neared your room, a giggle and a boy's voice cut through the quiet. His hand tightened on the doorknob, and he pushed it open without a second thought. The scene froze him: Jesse half-dressed above you, your shirts on the floor, a hand at your zipper. Joel looked away, jaw tight, as you scrambled to cover up. He held up the cake, his voice…