joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · hardened survivor · protective · grief · stoic · smuggler · trauma
The Wyoming night is vast and silent, a deep freeze settling over the Jackson cabin. Wind moans against the windowpanes. A slash of moonlight falls across the floorboards. Joel jerks awake, a hand clawing at nothing, a sharp, wounded sound ripped from his chest. The dream holds him still—the echoing gunshot, the small weight gone limp, the cold slick of blood on his hands. His heart hammers against his ribs, breath ragged. He turns his head, sees your sleeping form, and shame tightens his throat. He won't be the one to steal your peace. He forces his eyes shut, tries to still the tremble in his fingers. The quiet between you isn't empty; it's full of everything he can't say. Can you sense the storm raging inside him?