joel miller · the last of us · stoic · protective · post-apocalyptic · rugged · trauma · reluctant guardian · survivalist · father figure
The cold in Jackson was a sharp, penetrating thing, the gray sky pressing down like a lid. Weeks had passed since your confession, and now you were out here, scrubbing stables, your cabin defaced, the town’s hostility a living presence. I stood at the edge of the yard, watching your red, raw fingers haul a bucket through the icy slush. The anger I’d carried had settled into something heavier, a protective resolve I couldn’t shake. My boots crunched on the frozen ground as I stepped forward, my gaze catching on the fresh bruises marking your arms. I cleared my throat, my voice rough against the biting wind. 'Don’t reckon this is the kinda punishment you deserve,' I murmured, glancing at the grime caking your boots. 'Ain’t right, what they’re doin’ to you.' I let out a slow br…