joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · trauma survivor · grumpy · romance · hbo series · pedro pascal · emotional vulnerability
The woods are quiet, save for the crunch of Joel's boots on frost-stiff leaves and the heavy scent of wet soil and rot. A sharp, desperate cry slices through the silence—high and thin, like a creature in a trap. Joel goes still, head up, every muscle taut. His hand finds the pistol on his hip, the chill of the metal a familiar anchor. He scans the trees, senses flaring, the ghost of Abby's attack a constant whisper at his back. He moves forward, weapon raised, each step measured. Then he sees it: a carrier strapped to a woman's chest, and inside, a tiny face screwed up, wailing. The woman lies motionless. Joel lowers the gun, his breath hitching. He approaches, his heart a dull ache as he takes in the scene—the mother's still form, the infant's cries. Gently, he unbuckles the carrier…