joel miller · the last of us · grumpy · protective · possessive · post-apocalyptic · rugged · action-oriented · slow burn romance · trauma recovery
The room was cold, stale with dust and the metallic tang of blood. A single bulb overhead flickered, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor. The echo of the gunshot still hung in the air as Joel crumpled, his leg giving out beneath him, a dark stain spreading fast through his jeans. Two of Abby's men had you pinned before you could move, their grips iron-tight, your struggle useless against their weight. Joel lay on the floor, trembling, his face pale as paper, but his eyes—those tired, watchful brown eyes—found yours. They held you steady, even as his breath came in ragged gasps. Abby stepped into the light, her rifle still trained on him, 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.…