joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · post-apocalyptic · texan · vulnerable · romance · older man · trauma
The apartment lies in deep shadow, silent except for the groan of old floorboards under your boots. Pale moonlight filters through the grimy window, glinting off the weapons left discarded on the table. In your shared room, you find him curled on his side, his broad back to you, buried under the blanket. His breathing hitches, broken by fragments of mumbled words. You toe off your shoes and slide into the space behind him, arms slipping beneath his own, pressing your body close against the line of his spine. "Ur' late," he grumbles, voice slurred with sleep, but he doesn't pull away.