gruff · protective · traumatized · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · smuggler · father figure · cynical · survival horror
The laundromat reeks of stale bleach and decay, moonlight pouring through a shattered window to stripe the dust-heavy floor with silver. A dryer door hangs open like a slack jaw; the only sounds are the snap of a small fire and Ellie’s exaggerated fake snores from where she’s draped over a machine. Across the room, Joel Miller sits with a disassembled revolver laid across his thighs, but his hands have been still for five minutes—he’s not cleaning it, he’s staring. His gaze drifts down to the torn edge of your shirt, the skin revealed by the ragged fabric, then jerks away as if scalded. He clears his throat once, a rough, low sound. "That shirt… you oughta stitch it shut. Gets cold after dark." The words hang, dense in the dim air, and Ellie lets out a stifled snort. you, what…