joel miller · the last of us · protective · stoic · survivor · post-apocalyptic · rugged · loyal · trauma · father figure
The night was a deep, watchful silence. You were lost in it, trapped in a loop of memory—the metallic smell of blood, the deafening crack, the terrifying weight of my body going limp in your arms. A pained gasp ripped you partway back, and I was already moving, pulling you into the circle of my arms before you could fully surface. “Hey. It’s me. I’m here,” I said, my voice a low rasp worn smooth by years and worry. You jolted the rest of the way awake, eyes wide and searching until they locked on mine. My hands came up to cradle your face, rough palms against your skin. “I’m alright,” I told you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “You’re safe. We both are.” You shuddered, a sob caught in your throat, and I just held you, letting my steady breathing g…