Morning arrived in soft gray layers.
The power was still out, the house cool and hushed. Elena woke on the couch, cocooned in the afghan, Alex's arm heavy across her waist. His breath stirred the hair at her temple.
For a moment she let herself stay there (no guilt, no clock, just the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back). Then memory flooded in: his fingers inside her, the storm, the way she'd come undone whispering baby like a prayer.
She slipped from his arms, careful not to wake him. The candle had burned to a stub; wax pooled like a frozen tear. She carried it to the kitchen, set it in the sink, and started coffee on the gas stove.
Alex padded in ten minutes later, hair tousled, sweatpants riding low. He didn't speak, just came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder.
"Morning," he murmured.
"Morning." Her voice cracked.
They stood like that while the water boiled, his hips flush against her ass, the hard line of him unmistakable. She should step away. She leaned back instead.
"Coffee," she managed.
He released her, poured two mugs, added cream to hers without asking. They took them to the island and sat on opposite stools (close enough that their knees touched).
"We should talk," she said.
"I know."
Silence stretched. Outside, birds chirped; the storm had left the world dripping and new.
"I'm not sorry," he said finally.
"Neither am I." The admission startled them both.
He set his mug down. "I keep thinking I dreamed it."
"You didn't." She reached across, traced the faint red mark her teeth had left on his collarbone. "I bit you."
His eyes darkened. "I liked it."
Heat pooled low in her belly. She pulled her hand back. "Alex, this—"
"Is ours," he finished. "No one else gets to decide."
She wanted to argue (ethics, society, the twenty-two years between them), but the words felt flimsy against the truth in his eyes.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"Of what?"
"Losing you. Hurting you. Becoming… someone I don't recognize."
He slid off his stool, came around the island. Knelt in front of her. "Look at me."
She did.
"You raised me to be honest," he said. "This is me being honest. I love you. Not like a son. Like—" He swallowed. "Like a man who can't breathe without you."
Tears pricked her eyes. "I love you too. God help me."
He stood, cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Then let Him help someone else."
And then he kissed her.
Not the frantic, storm-fueled collision of last night. This was deliberate, worshipful (lips soft, then firm, coaxing hers open with a patience that made her tremble). She tasted coffee and him, felt the tremor in his hands as they framed her face like she was sacred.
When they broke apart, foreheads touching, she was crying.
"Don't," he whispered. "Please don't cry."
"I'm happy," she said, laughing through tears. "I'm terrified and happy."
He kissed her again, slower, deeper, until the only sound was their breathing and the soft clink of her mug as she set it aside.
"Upstairs," she said against his mouth. "I want to see you in daylight."
He followed her to her bedroom (their bedroom now, though neither said it). Sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, striping the bed in gold. She stood him at the foot of it, lifted his t-shirt over his head.
His torso was a map she'd watched grow: the faint scar from appendicitis at twelve, the new definition from summer labor. She traced every line with her fingertips, then her lips.
"Mom…"
"Shh. Let me."
She pushed his sweatpants down. He sprang free (thick, flushed, a bead of precum at the tip). Her mouth watered.
"Sit," she said.
He obeyed. She knelt between his legs, looked up at him.
I've never wanted anyone like this," she said. "Not even close."
Then she took him in her mouth.
Slow. Reverent. Tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, hand stroking what she couldn't swallow. He groaned, fingers threading gently through her hair (not pushing, just anchoring).
"Mom—fuck—Mom, I'm—"
She pulled off, kissed the tip. "Not yet."
She stood, let the robe fall. Naked in the morning light, stretch marks and soft curves and all. His eyes devoured her.
"You're beautiful," he said, voice cracking.
She climbed onto the bed, pushed him back, straddled his hips. His cock nudged her entrance, slick and ready.
"Look at me," she said.
He did.
She sank down, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. They both stilled, breathing hard.
"Feel that?" she whispered. "That's home."
He surged up, kissed her fierce and filthy, hands gripping her hips. She rode him slow, rolling, grinding, savoring every drag of him inside her. When she came, it was with his name on her lips and his thumb on her clit, gentle circles that drew it out until she sobbed.
He followed seconds later, hips bucking, spilling deep with a broken groan.
After, they lay tangled, sunlight warming their skin.
"No more dorms," he said into her neck. "I'm staying."
She kissed his temple. "We'll figure it out."
They had twelve days.
The shower ran cold before Elena noticed.
She stood under the spray, palms flat against the tile, water sluicing over her shoulders and down the slope of her back. Alex's cum still leaked from her, slow and warm, a reminder that refused to rinse away.
She should feel clean.
She felt marked.
The guilt arrived in waves (sharp, then dull, then sharp again).
He's your son.
He's the only person who's ever looked at you like you hung the moon.
You took him inside you.
He begged for it.
She pressed her forehead to the cool tile and let the tears come, silent, swallowed by the hiss of water.
The bathroom door creaked.
"Mom?"
Alex's voice, soft through the steam. She hadn't locked the door.
"I'm okay," she lied.
The curtain slid back. He stepped in fully clothed (sweatpants, t-shirt, barefoot) and wrapped his arms around her from behind. The water soaked him instantly, plastering cotton to skin.
"I heard you crying," he said against her neck.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He turned her gently, cupped her face. "We can stop. Say the word and we stop."
She searched his eyes (dark, earnest, terrified).
"I don't want to stop," she whispered. "I just don't want to lose you."
"You won't." He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. "I'm not going anywhere."
The water sputtered, then died to a trickle. The ancient water heater had finally given up.
They stood dripping in the sudden silence.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get warm."
He peeled off his soaked clothes, dropped them in the hamper. She watched, unashamed now, as he toweled her dry (slow, careful, like she was made of glass). When he reached between her legs, the towel came away streaked with him.
"Still inside me," she murmured.
"Want me to be." He kissed her, soft. "Always."
They ended up in her bed, naked under the quilt, limbs tangled. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across his chest. She traced one with her tongue.
"Tell me what you're afraid of," he said.
"That I'm using you. That I'm broken."
"You're not broken." He rolled them so she straddled his hips, his cock half-hard against her belly. "You're lonely. And I'm selfish enough to want all of you."
She laughed, watery. "You're nineteen."
"I've wanted you since I was fifteen."
The confession hung between them.
"I noticed," she admitted. "The way you'd watch me when I bent over. The laundry room. The pool last summer."
"I tried to hide it."
"You didn't." She leaned down, kissed him slow. "I liked it."
His hands slid to her ass, kneading. "I jerked off in your hamper once. Your blue lace panties."
Heat flared low in her belly. "Show me."
He groaned, rolled her beneath him. "Later. Right now I just want to hold you."
They dozed, woke, dozed again. Hunger finally drove them downstairs.
The kitchen was dim, power still out. Alex rummaged in the fridge by flashlight, pulled out eggs, cheese, half a loaf of sourdough.
"Grilled cheese?" he asked.
"And tomato soup," she said. "From the pantry."
They cooked side by side, hips bumping, hands brushing. When the soup bubbled, he dipped a spoon, blew on it, held it to her lips. She sipped, eyes on his.
"Good?"
"Perfect."
They ate at the island, knees touching under the counter.
Halfway through, his phone buzzed (Mark).
Elena's stomach dropped.
Alex silenced it. "He can wait."
She nodded, but the guilt crept back.
After lunch, they cleaned up in silence. When the last plate was dried, Alex caught her wrist.
"Basement," he said. "Now."
The washer had finished hours ago. The clothes sat warm in the basket. He pulled out one of his t-shirts, held it to his face, inhaled.
"Still smells like you," he said. "From when you wore it yesterday."
She'd fallen asleep in it after the couch.
He stepped close, pressed the shirt to her nose.
"Smell."
She did (her perfume, his detergent, them).
"I want to fuck you in it," he said.
"Here?"
"Here."
He lifted her onto the dryer, pushed the shirt up to her waist. No panties. He groaned at the sight of her, still swollen from earlier.
"Tell me to stop," he said again.
"Don't you dare."
He dropped to his knees, spread her with his thumbs, licked a slow stripe up her center. She cried out, hands fisting in his hair.
He ate her like a man starved (slow, thorough, worshipful). When she came, it was with his name muffled against her own forearm.
Then he stood, pushed his sweatpants down, and slid home in one smooth thrust.
The dryer rocked beneath them.
"Look at me," he panted. "See who's inside you."
She did.
They came together, her legs locked around his waist, his forehead pressed to hers.
After, he carried her upstairs, laid her on the bed, curled around her like a shield.
"No more crying," he murmured. "Not unless it's because I'm too deep."
She laughed, shaky. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Outside, the sky cleared. Inside, the guilt still lingered (but it was quieter now, drowned out by the steady beat of his heart against her back).