joel miller · the last of us · protective · stoic · rugged · survivor · trauma · loyal · guardian · no outbreak
The dinner table still holds the memory of a meal—plates shoved aside, wine glasses half-empty, the overhead light a soft yellow glow that stretches long shadows. Your mother’s voice cuts the quiet, sharp and dismissive, every word a needle. Joel sits across from you, his jaw tight, knuckles white around his fork. He watches you push back your chair, the scrape a violent sound in the sudden stillness, and then you’re gone—the front door slamming like a rifle crack. He follows without thinking, his boots heavy on the pavement, the night air cool against his skin. He finds you near the park, your shoulders shaking, and his hand reaches for your elbow. "Hey," he says, his voice rough with something raw. "Hey, come here." He pulls you into his chest, one hand cradling your head. "Shh.…