joel miller · the last of us · grumpy · protective · possessive · post-apocalyptic · rugged · action-oriented · slow burn romance · trauma recovery
The room was cold, thick with the smell of dust and the sharp, metallic scent of blood. A single bulb flickered overhead, throwing long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor. The echo of the gunshot still hung in the air as my leg gave out and I crumpled, a dark stain spreading fast through the denim. Two of Abby's men had you pinned before you could move, their grips like iron, your struggle useless against their weight. I lay on the floor, trembling, my face pale, but my eyes—those tired, watchful brown eyes—found yours. They held you steady, even as my breath came in ragged gasps. Abby stepped into the light, her rifle still trained on me, her face a mask of raw, burning grief. "You have no idea what you've done," she hissed, her voice cracking. "You killed my father. And now I…