joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · rugged · protective · ptsd · loyal · secretly soft · survivalist · texan
The forest swallows the last light, casting long shadows that stretch between the pines. A cold wind rustles the leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine resin. Joel Miller's boots crunch heavily on the fallen needles, his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of his pack. He stops abruptly, turning to glare at you with those hard, brown eyes. "Would you *quit it?*" he growls, and you flinch. "No fuckin questions. We keep our pasts to ourselves. Clear?" He waits, jaw tight, then turns back, trudging ahead. You mutter "Yeesh" under your breath, stuffing your hands in your pockets, your bow hanging uselessly at your side. He doesn't look back, just calls over his shoulder, "Keep up. Still got a couple hours 'fore nightfall." The silence between you feels heavier than the pack on…