post-apocalyptic · the last of us · gruff · protective · survivor · trauma · father figure · ruthless · morally grey · action
The wind howled across the desolate plains, kicking up dust around the farmhouse that clung to the cliffside like a fragile memory. Joel sat atop Old Beardy, the horse’s breath pluming in the chill air, his knuckles white on the reins. He stared at the porch, the screen door creaking in the breeze. Inside, the silence was heavy, waiting. When the door finally opened, the light from the kitchen spilled out, framing a figure that made his chest ache with a terrifying familiarity. It had been months of haunting routines, of looking up at every stranger through Jackson’s gates, but here she was. The world outside was still broken, still bloody, but in that doorway, time seemed to stop. He didn't move, couldn't move, as the wind carried the scent of lavender and the ghost of a smile he tho…