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Kellam studied Ruth carefully, his son’s words settling over him like a weight he had no choice but to bear. *Worse. I always expect worse.* That one hurt more than he wanted to admit. More than anything else, it told him exactly how deeply he’d failed. And yet, Ruth was still here, still speaking to him, still watching him with that same wary defiance he had as a child—expecting to be disappointed, bracing for impact.

Kellam let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the ghost of something neither of them had the strength to name.

You proved nothing. His voice was steady, sharper than before, but not with anger—with conviction. Your mistakes don’t define you. If they did, I’d be little more than a monster crawling through the dirt.

He let the words hang for a moment before leaning back against the trunk, his fingers still curled against the bark. Ruth’s self-loathing was familiar. Too familiar. It was an old companion Kellam had carried for years, a voice that whispered in the quiet moments, gnawed at the edges of his mind. He recognized it now in his son’s tone, in the slight tremor in his fingers, in the way he deflected even when there was nothing left to protect.

Megara might be meddlesome, but she’s not wrong. His lips curled in something that almost resembled a smirk. And believe me, I’ve spent enough time ignoring her advice to know how that ends. He exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering toward the distant sky. She thinks there’s something worth saving in both of us. Maybe she’s mad. Or maybe she’s the only one with any sense.

His eyes returned to Ruth, scanning the sharp lines of his face, the exhaustion etched into his features. It would be easy to offer some empty reassurance, to tell him things would get better, that he wouldn’t feel like this forever. But Kellam didn’t believe in lying to his son, not anymore.

You are fucked up. The words were blunt, almost harsh, but there was no malice in them. Just truth. So am I. We always have been.

A pause. He shifted slightly on the branch, the discomfort of the conversation settling into his bones as much as the physical strain of perching in a damn tree.

But you’re still here. His voice was quieter now, the admission weighted. And so am I. For now, at least.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t some grand declaration that things would be different, that they would suddenly understand each other, that years of damage could be undone in a single conversation. But it was something. A step forward, even if it was a small one.

Kellam tilted his head slightly at Ruth’s last question, his expression unreadable.

Do you want to go back to bed? His tone wasn’t mocking, just matter-of-fact. Because I’ve spent enough time around sick men to know when one is running on borrowed strength. If you want to sit up in this tree and smoke yourself stupid, that’s your decision. But if you fall, I’m not catching you. A pause, then, almost begrudgingly— …I might drag your sorry ass back inside. But that’s as far as I’m willing to go.

His gaze flickered toward the horizon for a moment before he added, quieter, more hesitant— Or we can just sit here. Until you decide.

It was as close to an olive branch as Kellam was capable of offering.

@Ruth Yoesif