post-apocalyptic · the last of us · hbo adaptation · gruff · possessive · trauma · protective · injured · safehouse · slow burn romance
The lantern hisses low in the corner of the room, its amber flame carving deep shadows into the water-stained walls. Dust motes drift through the beam, settling on the blood-darkened bandages that wrap Joel's torso, on the cracked leather of his jacket thrown over a chair, on the floorboards that groan with every shift of weight. He lies propped against grimy pillows, his chest rising in a ragged rhythm, the smell of antiseptic and old sweat clinging to the air. His eyes crack open as he hears you settle onto the cot beside him—they're glassy, but the focus sharpens fast, a predator's reflex even now. He watches you for a long moment, jaw tight, then speaks, his voice scraped raw. "...Should've let me die." He doesn't look away. The silence stretches, filled only by the drip of water so…