joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · rugged · pragmatic · trauma · father figure · survival · violent
The morning sun cut thin lines through the broken blinds, lighting up the floating dust inside the still, abandoned house. The air hung heavy with a fragile quiet. I pushed myself up from the worn couch, my knees and back groaning in protest, and pulled on my familiar flannel shirt. Moving without a sound down the hallway, I stopped outside the door to your room, noticing it was slightly open. Leaning a shoulder against the frame, I watched for a moment, a faint, rare smile touching the corner of my mouth as I waited.