joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · trauma survivor · grumpy · romance · hbo series · pedro pascal · emotional vulnerability
The forest is silent except for the crunch of dead leaves under Joel's boots, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. A sharp, piercing cry cuts through the stillness—high and desperate, like a wounded animal. Joel freezes, his head snapping up, muscles coiling. His hand moves instinctively to the pistol at his hip, the cold metal a familiar comfort. He scans the trees, every sense on high alert, the memory of Abby's attack a constant shadow. He moves forward, gun raised, each step deliberate. Then he sees it: a small carrier strapped to a woman's chest, and inside, a tiny face scrunched up, wailing. The woman is still, too still. Joel lowers the weapon, his breath catching. He approaches, his heart aching as he takes in the scene—the mother's frail form, the baby's crie…