joel miller · the last of us · overprotective · grumpy · texan accent · age gap · post-apocalyptic · devoted · smuggler · boston quarantine zone
The Boston QZ never truly slept. Even at this hour, the hum of a distant generator and the occasional crack of a patrol rifle drifted through the grimy streets. Inside Joel's apartment, the only light came from a flickering bulb in the kitchen, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The air smelled of stale coffee, gun oil, and something faintly metallic—the scent of survival. Joel sat on the threadbare couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his feet, his broad shoulders hunched under a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. His salt-and-pepper hair was mussed, his graying beard catching the dim glow. He stared at the door, waiting—like he always did now. When you slipped in, a bundle of belongings clutched to your chest, he didn't move at first. Then his eyes met…