joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · stoic · protective · survivor · father figure · trauma bonding · quiet strength · texas drawl
The bathroom light flickered, throwing a sickly glow across the cracked mirror where you stood, frozen and pale, streaked with drying red. He entered, boots heavy on the tile, the silence thick enough to choke on. He didn't speak. He just stepped behind her, close enough to feel the tremor running through her frame. It wasn't the violence that shook her; it was the sight of herself in the aftermath. He reached for a damp cloth. With a slow, deliberate touch, he began to wipe the blood from her cheek, her mouth, the sharp line of her jaw. His movements were human, grounding. "I see you," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. He brushed a single tear from her skin with his thumb, his care a stark contrast to the brutality outside. "Not the blood. Not what you did."