Time stopped keeping score.
There were no more clocks, no ringing phones, no mail truck struggling up the buried road. Only the slow rhythm of wood stove crackles, the soft thud of snow sliding from the roof in heavy sheets, and the endless, gentle joining of their bodies.
They woke when they woke, loved when they needed, ate when hunger finally tugged them from the mattress. Days blurred into one long, golden haze of skin and whispers and milk.
Caleb had learned the exact pressure that made his mother sigh, the precise angle that let him sink deepest while she cradled his head to her breast. Elena had learned the small, helpless sound he made just before he came inside her (half sob, half prayer), and she chased it every time like the sweetest music.
On the seventh morning (or perhaps the tenth; neither was sure), Elena woke first. Caleb was still asleep on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other curled protectively over her hip. They had fallen asleep facing each other, her leg hooked high over his waist so he could stay inside her through the night. He was soft now, but nestled as deeply as ever.
She watched him for a long time: the boyish sweep of lashes against his cheek, the new stubble that rasped so deliciously against her nipples, the faint bruises her own mouth had left along his throat. Love rose in her chest so fierce it hurt.
Carefully, so carefully, she began to move (tiny circles of her hips, the gentlest clench and release of inner muscles). Caleb stirred, breath catching. His cock thickened inside her in slow, lazy increments until he filled her again.
"Mommy?" he mumbled, eyes still closed.
"I'm here, baby," she whispered, kissing his eyelids, his nose, the corner of his mouth. "Just loving you awake. Stay still. Let Mommy do everything."
He obeyed instantly, body relaxing back into the mattress while she rode him with the softest possible motion (barely more than breathing). Her breasts swayed above him; milk beaded, then dripped in steady drops onto his chest.
Caleb opened his eyes at the warm patter. The sight of her above him (hair tousled, cheeks flushed, nipples leaking for him alone) undid him completely.
"Mommy, please…" His voice cracked.
"Please what, sweetheart?"
"Please let me taste."
She smiled and lowered herself until her breast brushed his lips. He latched on with a grateful moan, hips lifting just enough to meet her downward glide. They moved together like that (slow, dreamy, almost meditative), until the pleasure crested in soft waves rather than a crash.
Afterward she stayed on top of him, his head cradled between her breasts, their bodies still joined.
"I have something to tell you," she said quietly.
Caleb's arms tightened around her waist. "Anything."
"I'm late," she whispered against his hair. "My cycle. I'm never late, baby. Not once in twenty-five years."
He went very still beneath her.
She pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were huge, shimmering.
"You mean…?"
"I mean there might be another little proof of how much Mommy loves her boy," she said, tears spilling over. "Would you like that, Caleb? A brother… or a sister… made from the purest love in the world?"
He made a broken sound and crushed her close, hips jerking helplessly as fresh tears wet her skin.
"Yes," he choked. "God, yes. I want everything with you. Everything."
She kissed him through both their tears, rocking gently, feeling him swell and spill again inside the place that might already be growing their future.
"Then we'll have everything," she promised. "Just us. Forever snowed in. Forever yours, forever mine."
Outside, the sky opened once more and began to fall in thick, deliberate flakes (as though the heavens themselves were tucking them in, hiding them, blessing them).
Inside, mother and son clung together, hearts beating in perfect, awed unison, and let the quiet days stretch on into eternity.
The first sign was the smell of her skin.
Caleb noticed it one quiet afternoon while she napped against his chest. The familiar scent of warm milk and soft woman had deepened into something richer, rounder—like fresh bread and honey and something new he couldn't name. He buried his nose in the curve of her neck and breathed her in until his eyes stung.
Elena stirred, smiling before she even opened her eyes.
"You're sniffing me again, baby," she murmured, amused.
"You smell different," he said, voice small with wonder. "Sweeter. Like… like you're glowing from the inside."
Her hand drifted to the gentle curve of her lower belly (still flat, but somehow no longer empty). She guided his palm there too.
"That's your doing, sweetheart," she whispered. "You put a baby in Mommy. I can feel it."
Caleb's breath hitched. He pressed his forehead to hers, trembling.
"Are you sure?"
"I've carried you before," she said simply. "I know the feeling. And my breasts…" She took his hand higher, cupping one swollen globe. "They've never been this heavy, this tender. Not even when you were growing inside me the first time."
As if to prove it, a bead of milk formed the instant his thumb brushed her nipple (thicker now, almost cream). Caleb stared, reverent.
"Drink," she invited, voice husky. "Taste what you made for our baby."
He latched on gently, and the milk that flooded his tongue was richer, warmer, faintly sweet in a way that made him groan. Elena's fingers threaded through his hair, cradling him close while her hips rolled in slow, instinctive circles.
They made love right there on the couch (her straddling his lap, riding him with the softest possible motion, never breaking the nursing). Every pull of his mouth drew a gasp from her throat; every gentle thrust upward seated him deeper in the cradle of her body.
When she came it was silent and shattering (her whole body clenching around him like a promise). Caleb followed seconds later, hips pressed tight, spilling pulse after pulse into the womb that already carried his child.
Afterward she didn't move off him. She stayed impaled, arms around his shoulders, cheek against his hair.
"I want to feel you every minute," she whispered. "I want our baby to grow up knowing its daddy never left its mommy's body for long."
Caleb's arms tightened until they shook.
"I'll never leave," he vowed, voice cracking. "Not ever. This is home. You're my home."
That night they dragged the mattress closer to the window so they could watch the snow while they loved. Elena lay on her side, Caleb spooned behind her, one arm under her breasts, the other splayed protectively over her belly. He entered her from behind (slow, careful, reverent) and stayed there, barely moving, just the gentlest rocking to keep them joined.
Every so often he would press a kiss between her shoulder blades and whisper, "Thank you for keeping me."
Every time, Elena would reach back, thread their fingers together over their growing child, and answer, "Thank you for coming home."
They fell asleep like that (connected, covered in milk and each other, the faint curve of new life already safe between them).
Outside, the snow kept building higher and higher, as if the mountain itself had decided no one would ever disturb this perfect, hidden world.
Inside, mother and son breathed as one, dreaming of tiny fingers and lullabies and a lifetime of mornings that began and ended exactly like this:
Still inside her.
Still hers.
Still, and forever, home.