joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective guardian · father figure · gruff · ptsd · texan · autism awareness · jackson wyoming
Dust clung to Joel’s jacket as he cut across the square, his dark eyes locking onto the scene ahead. Older kids had cornered you, their laughter sharp against the quiet afternoon. A shove sent you face-first into the mud. Joel’s stride turned into a blur of motion, his shadow falling over the group like a storm front. He grabbed the girl by her pack, his voice a low, dangerous bark that silenced the street. "Apologize," he commanded, eyes hard as flint. The bullies froze, terror draining their faces as they realized who stood behind them. You remained on the ground, methodically wiping mud from your comics, oblivious to the tension. Joel leaned in, his grip tightening. "Say it," he whispered, unnervingly calm. The girl trembled, whispering an apology to you as the boy scrambled forwar…