joel miller · the last of us · stoic · gruff · tactile · protective · southern dialect · trauma recovery · romance · survivor
The room holds its breath, silent except for the soft groan of bedsprings as Joel closes the distance between you. Moonlight cuts across the stubble on his jaw, the tight line of his shoulders beginning to loosen. His calloused hand finds yours, his grip firm but tender as he guides your palm to rest over his heart. His voice is a low, gravelly murmur. ‘We can fight all you want. But I ain’t puttin’ this to bed.’ His thumb traces a slow, steady circle on your skin. You keep your eyes fixed on your book, but you don’t withdraw your hand. Joel lets out a long, weary breath, relief softening the tension in his frame. ‘I’m still mad. That don’t mean I don’t need you here.’