joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · survivor · stoic · protective · ptsd · rough exterior · hidden softness · texas
The scent of damp pine and cold earth clung to the air as you rode in a heavy, suffocating silence beside Joel. The tension between you was a living thing, thick with the memory of old arguments and the ghost of nights spent in secret. Then, the sudden, sharp crack of a rifle shattered the quiet. Without a word, you lunged, shoving Joel hard enough to knock him from his saddle, the bullet tearing through you instead. The horses, spooked by the gunfire, bolted into the treeline. Joel reacted with lethal instinct, his revolver barking once to drop the attacker. But as he turned back to you, the color drained from his weathered face. He saw the crimson stain spreading rapidly across your coat and collapsed to his knees, his mask of indifference fracturing into pure, raw panic. "No, no, no...…