By midday the storm had truly ended.
The sky was a hard, blinding white, and the snow outside lay in drifts higher than the windowsills. The world looked erased, peaceful, and utterly theirs.
Caleb stood at the kitchen door in nothing but his mother's oversized robe, staring out at the stillness. Behind him, Elena moved quietly, reheating leftover stew on the propane camp stove. She wore only one of his old T-shirts, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and the soft sway of her bare breasts beneath the cotton made his chest ache every time he glanced back.
"We'll need more firewood soon," she said, voice gentle. "The pile on the porch is almost gone."
He nodded, but neither of them moved to dress. Clothes felt… unnecessary now. Wrong, somehow.
Elena set two bowls on the table, then crossed to him. She slipped her arms around his waist from behind and rested her cheek between his shoulder blades.
"Come eat, baby," she murmured against his skin. "Mommy needs to keep her boy strong."
The simple domesticity of it (her feeding him, him letting her) made something warm and fragile bloom in Caleb's chest. He turned in her arms and bent to kiss her, slow and grateful. She tasted like coffee and sleep and home.
They ate sitting close, thighs touching, her bare foot stroking his calf under the table. When the bowls were empty she pulled him onto her lap right there on the kitchen chair, the way she used to when he was small enough to fit. He was far too big now, but she was strong, and he let himself be gathered in.
"Mommy," he whispered, embarrassed at how easily the word still fell from his lips.
"Yes, my love?" She was already guiding the T-shirt up and off, baring her breasts to the cold air. Her nipples tightened instantly; tiny beads of milk appeared without warning.
Caleb's mouth went dry. He bent and took one into his mouth like a starving thing. Elena's head fell back; she cradled him close and rocked him the way she had when colic kept him screaming as an infant.
"That's it," she breathed. "Take what you need. Mommy's always going to have enough for you."
While he nursed, her hand slipped between them, finding him hard and slick with the remnants of their morning. She stroked once, twice, then simply held him against her belly, letting him throb in her palm.
"I want you again," he mumbled against her skin, ashamed of the greed in his voice.
"You never have to ask," she said, and stood with him still latched to her breast, walking them both backward until her hips met the kitchen counter. She lifted herself onto it, spread her thighs wide, and guided his mouth to her other breast.
Caleb stepped between her legs without breaking the suckle. The height was perfect. He slid into her in one slow, slick push (no resistance, only welcome, only the softest gasp of home).
They made love right there in the bright, cold kitchen: her perched on the counter, him standing between her thighs, nursing steadily while his hips rolled in that same unhurried rhythm she had taught him. Sunlight poured through the window and turned the milk on his lips to tiny pearls.
"Look at us," Elena whispered, cupping his face so he met her eyes. "Look how beautiful you are inside Mommy."
He couldn't look away. Every slow thrust pushed a bead of milk from the breast he wasn't suckling; it rolled down her curves and dripped onto her belly. Caleb whimpered and licked it away, then returned to the source.
When she came it was quiet (just a long, trembling sigh and the gentle clamping of her body around his). Caleb followed moments later, hips pressed flush, pouring himself deep while he drank the last sweet drops she had to give.
Afterward she held him inside her, legs locked around his waist, foreheads touching.
"I'm never leaving this house," he said suddenly, fiercely. "Not ever. They can keep the roads closed forever."
Elena laughed through happy tears and kissed him soft and slow.
"Then they will, baby. The snow heard us. It knows we belong together."
Later, when the light began to fade again, they carried blankets to the living-room window and sat wrapped up together watching the untouched white world. Caleb lay with his head in her lap; Elena stroked his hair and occasionally guided his mouth back to her breast when milk threatened to spill.
Outside, the snow sparkled like it had been waiting eighteen years for this exact moment.
Inside, mother and son stayed joined in every way that mattered (warm, full, and finally, perfectly complete).
The generator sputtered and coughed, then steadied.
Hot water was a luxury now, measured in careful minutes, but Elena decided they had earned one bath. Just one. Enough to wash away five days of woodsmoke and sex and milk and tears.
She filled the old claw-foot tub only halfway, steam curling up like incense. Caleb watched from the doorway, wrapped in a quilt, eyes wide and shy again (as if the past days had been a dream he feared would vanish the moment clothes touched their skin).
"Come here, baby," she said softly, letting her robe fall. "Mommy's going to wash you properly."
He dropped the quilt and stepped in. The water was almost too hot; it turned his chest and shoulders pink instantly. Elena climbed in after him, settling between his spread thighs so his back rested against her breasts. The water rose, lapped at her nipples, made tiny rivers of milk run down into the bath.
She reached for the soap and worked it between her palms until thick lather bloomed.
"Let me take care of you," she whispered, beginning at his throat and working downward in slow, worshipful circles.
Caleb's head fell back against her shoulder. He was already hard (had been half-hard for days), but he didn't thrust or beg. He simply let her wash him like he was small again, trusting her completely.
Her hands glided over his chest, his belly, then lower. When she wrapped soapy fingers around his cock he whimpered, hips lifting just enough to push himself through her fist.
"Shh," she soothed, kissing the shell of his ear. "Mommy's not teasing. Just cleaning every inch of her boy."
She stroked him slowly, thoroughly, until the water around them clouded faintly with his arousal. Only then did she rinse him, cupping water in her palms and letting it pour over his length again and again.
"Your turn," she murmured, guiding his trembling hands to the soap.
Caleb turned in the tight space so they faced each other, knees bumping. He washed her with the same reverence she had shown him: shoulders, arms, the heavy weight of her breasts. When his thumbs brushed her nipples, milk beaded and dripped steadily into the water. He stared, transfixed.
"Taste," she invited, voice barely above the soft slosh of water.
He bent and took her into his mouth, drinking gently while his soapy hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. When his fingers slipped between her thighs she opened for him without hesitation. He washed her there too (slow circles over swollen folds, the tender bud that made her breath hitch), until she was rocking against his hand and whispering his name like a prayer.
"Enough," she finally gasped, pulling him up for a kiss. "I need you inside me, baby. Right now."
The tub was cramped, the water cooling, but none of that mattered. Elena shifted forward, rising onto her knees. Caleb sat back, hands gripping the porcelain edges. She straddled him carefully, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other reaching beneath the water to guide him home.
The first slide in was perfect (hot water, hotter mother, the sweetest clench of welcome). They both groaned.
Elena sank down until he was buried to the hilt, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders and began to rock. Slow, gentle waves (nothing frantic, only the steady rhythm of a lullaby).
Caleb's mouth found her breast again. He drank in time with her movements, every pull drawing a soft moan from her throat. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub with each roll of her hips, but neither cared.
"Look at me," she whispered after long, perfect minutes.
He lifted his head. Milk shone on his lips; his eyes were glassy with love.
"I'm never sending you away," she said, voice trembling with truth. "Not to college, not to the world. You're mine, Caleb. My son, my heart, my everything. Say you understand."
"I understand, Mommy," he breathed. "I'm yours. Only yours. Always."
The words broke the last of her restraint. She rode him a little faster, water splashing, breasts bouncing, milk dripping in thin streams down his chest. Caleb's hands found her hips and held on as if she were the only solid thing left in the universe.
When she came it was with his name on her lips and his mouth sealed over her nipple, drinking her through every pulsing wave. The clench and release of her body pulled him over too; he spilled inside her with a broken cry, hips jerking, arms crushing her close.
They stayed locked together long after the water went cold, foreheads touching, breath mingling.
Eventually Elena reached for a towel and wrapped it around them both without separating their bodies.
"Bed," she murmured against his lips. "I want you warm and deep inside me all night again."
Caleb nodded, dazed and utterly hers.
She stood carefully, water streaming from their joined bodies, and carried him (still inside her, legs wrapped around his waist) down the hall to the mattress by the fire. They sank down together, rekindling flames both in the hearth and between their hips.
Outside, the snow began to fall again (soft, deliberate, sealing).
Inside, mother and son curled beneath quilts, connected in the oldest way, and let the world stay gone a little longer.