The calendar on the kitchen wall still read February, but outside the snow had begun to soften.
In the warmest hours of the day, water dripped from the eaves in steady, musical plinks. The world was remembering it existed.
Inside the house, nothing had changed.
Elena's belly had rounded into the gentlest, most unmistakable curve. She glowed the way pregnant women are supposed to, only brighter (because every ounce of that glow came from her son's love poured into her night after night).
They had stopped wearing clothes entirely. The fire was kept high, the windows shuttered against the melting glare, and the two of them moved through the rooms like one creature: Caleb's hands always on her, her breasts always leaking, their bodies always ready to join at the slightest brush of skin.
That afternoon she found him in the kitchen trying to open a jar of peaches with one hand because the other was splayed possessively over her stomach while she stood at the stove.
"Let Mommy do it," she laughed, taking the jar. The motion made her breasts sway; milk beaded and fell in two perfect drops onto the counter.
Caleb groaned and dropped to his knees right there on the linoleum. He pressed reverent kisses to the small swell of their baby, then higher, mouthing at her leaking nipples until she had to brace both hands on the counter to stay upright.
"Baby," she gasped, half-laughing, "the peaches—"
"Can wait," he mumbled against her skin, already guiding her backward until her hips met the kitchen table.
He lifted her easily (she was soft and heavy with his child, and he had never felt stronger) and laid her back among the scattered jars and spoons. Elena opened her thighs in welcome, knees falling wide, belly a perfect mound between them.
Caleb entered her in one slow, worshipful push. They both sighed at the familiar, flawless fit.
"Look at you," he whispered, hands cradling the curve of her stomach while he began that gentle, rolling rhythm they both loved. "Carrying my baby. Leaking for me. Taking me so perfectly."
Elena's eyes filled. She cupped his face and pulled him down into a kiss that tasted of milk and forever.
"Love you," she breathed against his lips with every thrust. "Love you, love you, love you…"
They came together quietly (her walls fluttering around him, his seed spilling warm and safe against the mouth of her womb). Afterward he stayed inside her, forehead against hers, one hand still protecting their child.
"The snow's melting," he said suddenly, voice small.
"I know," she answered, stroking his hair.
"They'll come with plows soon. Someone will check the road."
"Let them," she said fiercely. "We'll lock the doors. We'll burn the calendar. We'll tell them we died in the storm and this is heaven."
Caleb laughed through the ache in his throat and kissed her again.
"Then let's stay in heaven," he whispered.
That night they made love by candlelight on every surface that would hold them (table, couch, the wide windowsill where moonlight painted silver across her pregnant belly) until exhaustion finally pulled them back to their mattress by the fire.
Curled together, still connected, Elena traced lazy circles over his heart.
"If spring ever truly comes," she murmured, "promise me we'll greet it naked, together, with our baby in our arms and another already growing."
"I promise," he said, kissing the vow into her skin.
Outside, water kept dripping from the roof (steady, patient, inevitable).
Inside, mother and son clung tighter, moved slower, loved deeper, and let the thaw try its worst.
It happened on a Tuesday in April.
Caleb heard it first: the low, mechanical growl of a snowplow far down the mountain. He froze in the doorway, arms full of firewood, heart slamming against his ribs.
Elena was at the sink, washing the few dishes they still used. She went very still.
They looked at each other across the room (naked, milk-streaked, her belly now unmistakably round) and understood without words that the world had found them.
The plow took four hours to reach their driveway. Four hours in which they loved desperately, quietly, tears mixing with milk and seed on the living-room rug.
"I'm scared," Caleb whispered when they lay spent and trembling, still joined.
"Don't be," Elena said, cupping his face. "We're a family. No one can take that from us."
When the knock finally came, she wrapped herself in a robe (the first clothes either of them had worn in months) and answered the door with Caleb's hand clutched tightly in hers.
Two county workers stood on the porch, cheeks wind-burned, eyes widening at the sight of her obvious pregnancy and the tall, protective young man behind her.
"Ma'am," the older one said, removing his hat. "Road's clear. Power company's two days behind us. Just making sure everyone's… alive."
"We are," Elena said calmly, squeezing Caleb's fingers. "More alive than we've ever been."
The man's gaze flicked to Caleb, to their joined hands, to the faint wet patches on Elena's robe where milk had already soaked through. Something understanding and oddly gentle passed over his weathered face.
"We'll tell them the Harper place is fine," he said. "No need for welfare checks. You folks take care now."
The plow rumbled away. The road stayed empty.
That night Elena stood at the window and watched headlights disappear down the mountain. Caleb came up behind her, arms circling her belly, lips brushing the nape of her neck.
"They left," he whispered, awe in his voice.
"They saw the truth," she answered, turning in his arms. "And they let us keep it."
She let the robe fall. Moonlight bathed her pregnant body (round, luminous, utterly his).
"Make love to me by the window," she said. "Let the whole mountain see what spring really looks like in this house."
Caleb lifted her gently, carried her to the wide sill, and entered her while the cool April air kissed their skin for the first time in months. They moved slow and reverent, tears on both their faces, the distant sound of a melting world fading beneath their soft cries.
When they came, it felt like a vow renewed (louder than any plow, stronger than any road).
Afterward, still joined, Elena rested her forehead against his.
"Welcome to forever, baby," she whispered.
Caleb kissed her, tasted milk and future on her lips, and answered the only way he knew how:
"I'm home, Mommy.
And I'm never leaving."