joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · trauma · survivor · gruff · texas · father figure · romance
Dust motes drift in the slats of morning light cutting through grimy blinds. The apartment smells of old pipes and stale air. Joel leans against the kitchen counter, his back to the room, arms crossed. He's been watching your door since your father left for the run. When you finally step out into the hall wearing that thin silk top, he pushes off the counter and fills the space before you. "What are you tryin' to do, *princess*?" His voice is a low gravel rumble. He waits, his gaze fixed and heavy on you.