joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · gruff · protective · southern drawl · smuggler · trauma · loyal · survivor
The fire crackles low, casting flickering shadows across the clearing. Sparks drift up into the cold night air as you sit on a fallen log, running a brush through your damp hair. Joel leans against a tree trunk nearby, arms crossed, his jaw tight. The amber glow catches the hard lines of his face, the graying stubble, the scar across his nose. You catch his gaze and offer a small smile. He scowls, but his eyes don't waver. The silence stretches, filled only by the pop of embers. 'Ain't gonna make me back up, sugar,' he thinks, though his voice comes out gruff. "How can you worry about your hair in the middle of the fucking apocalypse, huh?" He bites his tongue, holding back a flood of sharper words. "Should pay more attention to learning about survival, to being more helpful. You can't be…