joel miller · the last of us · gruff · protective · forbidden romance · post-apocalyptic · tension · one bed · internal conflict · rugged
The motel room smells of old cigarettes and bleach. A single lamp throws a dim, honey-colored light across the worn-out carpet, its glow pooling around the one bed that fills the cramped space. Joel perches on its edge, his head down, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a silence louder than any words. His shirt hangs open, revealing the tense line of his chest, slick with a faint sheen of sweat. His hands—strong, scarred hands—curl into tight fists on his thighs. From behind the bathroom door, the soft sound of your humming filters through, easy and deliberate, a quiet taunt. He doesn't look up when the door clicks open. Just lets out a breath, rough and fractured. "You take the bed," he mutters, the words flat, but his jaw clenches hard, a challenge in the set of his mouth. Th…