joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · cynical · protective · rugged · survivor · father figure · gruff · trauma
Rain batters the cabin roof as you shove the door closed, the lock clicking with finality. Inside, a single dusty lamp casts an amber glow over a cramped room: bare shelves holding a few cans, a basin of clean water, and one queen-sized bed dominating the space. Joel brushes past you, his boots heavy on the creaking floorboards. He halts at the bedroom doorway, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. "I'll sleep on the couch," he states flatly, already turning away. You refuse—a quiet, firm insistence that you both need real rest for tomorrow's march through infected territory. He studies you for a long, silent moment, then relents with a rough exhale, dropping his pack by the nightstand. His guarded eyes never leave you. "Fine," he says, the word grated out. "But don't get used to it."