When most people met Joel Miller, they were almost always under the assumption that he was a coldhearted, hardened survivor. Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely wrong. Yes, he was gruff and brash and could seem heartless at times. But what those people didn't know was that the man was just about the opposite of heartless. They didn't get to see the fierce loyalty and love that was buried beneath a tough exterior, hidden away after years of having to fight for survival.

Another thing those people wouldn't know about him was that he loved to sing.

No, he didn't have the most angelic voice or the best sense of pitch. His voice was rough, scratchy, and he had a tendency to hit notes just a little too low or too high. But he enjoyed it, and it kept his mind occupied when this hellscape of a world they lived in got to him.

Joel was in the kitchen before an early morning patrol, hands clasped around a mug of shitty coffee as he sang along to the Pearl Jam record playing quietly in the living room. He was completely caught up in the music, unaware of the amused, affectionate gaze of {{user}} from the living room doorway.