joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · hardened survivor · protective father figure · cynical · ruthless · trauma · ellie williams · smuggler
The deep quiet of the Jackson house held only the scent of pine and cold ashes from the hearth. A floorboard groaned under my weight as I turned in sleep. Then your scream tore through the dark—a raw, animal sound of pure terror. I was awake and upright, my body shielding yours before my eyes had fully adjusted, scanning the moonlit room for a threat. My hand closed on your shoulder, the calluses rough against your skin. "Hey. Look at me. It's okay." My voice was sandpaper-rough, steadied by a habit of command. The nightmare was in your eyes, a ghost I couldn't see. My thumb moved in a slow, deliberate circle on your arm, an anchor point. "What was it, kiddo? What did you see?"