The storm arrived before dawn, a low growl that rattled the windows and turned the backyard into a silver blur. Elena woke to the sound of rain on the roof and the faint, rhythmic creak of the washing machine downstairs.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Mark's side of the bed was cold, the pillow untouched. Two nights gone, twelve more to go. The thought should have felt like relief; instead it felt like a countdown.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and wet earth. Alex stood at the counter in gray sweatpants and nothing else, hair damp from the shower, pouring grounds into the French press. The muscles in his back shifted as he moved (broad, defined, nothing like the boy who used to beg for piggyback rides). Elena's mouth went dry.
"Morning," he said without turning.
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep. Thunder." He pressed the plunger down slowly, steam curling around his wrists. "Figured I'd start the laundry before the power goes out again."
She padded to the fridge, hyper-aware of the thin cotton of her nightgown, the way it clung to her hips when she bent for the cream. When she straightened, he was watching her in the reflection of the toaster. Their eyes met. He didn't look away.
"I threw your sheets in too," he said. "They were… damp."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd come home from yoga yesterday and collapsed on his bed for a nap, exhausted, and woken up slick between her thighs from a dream she refused to name.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
He nodded, turned back to the coffee.
The basement door stood open, a rectangle of cool air and the low thump of the washer. Elena followed the sound, barefoot on the wooden stairs. The laundry room was dim, lit only by the small window high on the wall. Alex's clothes were piled on the folding table (hoodies, jeans, the black boxer briefs she'd bought him in a three-pack last month).
She picked one up without thinking, pressed the soft cotton to her face. His scent (clean skin, cedar soap, something darker) filled her lungs. Her knees weakened.
"Mom?"
She startled, dropping the fabric. Alex stood in the doorway, two mugs in hand. Steam curled between them like incense.
"I—sorry. I was just—"
"It's okay." He stepped inside, set the mugs on the dryer. The space felt smaller with him in it, the air thick with detergent and rain. "I do it too. With your sweaters."
Her breath caught. "You do?"
He nodded, eyes on the floor. "When you're at book club. Or in the shower. I just… miss you when you're not around."
The confession hung between them, fragile and obscene. Elena's heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it over the spin cycle.
"Alex…"
"I know it's weird." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I'm not supposed to—"
"You're not weird." She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint freckles across his collarbone. "You're my son. You're allowed to miss me."
He looked up then, and the raw need in his eyes stole her breath. "It's more than that."
The washer clicked into rinse, a sudden rush of water. Elena reached past him for the fabric softener, her breast brushing his arm. Neither of them moved.
"I should finish this," she said, voice trembling.
"Let me." He took the bottle from her hand, fingers lingering on hers. "You go drink your coffee."
She should have left. Instead she stayed, watching as he measured the cap, poured it in, closed the lid. The simple domesticity of it (her son doing her laundry, caring for her in ways Mark never had) made her chest ache.
When he turned, she was still there.
"Mom," he said, low. "I'm trying to be good."
"I know."
"I don't want to be."
The words cracked something open inside her. She closed the distance, cupped his face in both hands. His skin was warm, stubble rough against her palms.
"You're always good," she whispered. "You're perfect."
He leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering shut. "I dream about you."
"Tell me."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "You're in my bed. Wearing that blue nightgown. The one that's too short. You climb on top of me and—" He stopped, throat working. "I wake up so hard it hurts."
Elena's thighs clenched. She should stop this. Should send him upstairs, lock the door, call a therapist. Instead she pressed her forehead to his.
"I dream about you too," she admitted. "Every night since your father left."
His hands found her waist, tentative. "What do you dream?"
"That you touch me. That you don't stop."
A shudder ran through him. The washer beeped (cycle complete). Neither of them moved.
Upstairs, the coffee was cooling. Down here, the air was thick with want. Elena stepped back, just enough to breathe.
"We should fold," she said.
They worked side by side, silent. She handed him warm t-shirts; he passed her damp towels. Their fingers brushed again and again (accidental, then not). When the last sock was paired, Alex caught her wrist.
"Mom."
She looked up. His eyes were dark, pupils blown.
"I'm not going back to the dorms tomorrow."
Her heart stuttered. "You have class—"
"I'll commute." He stepped closer, backing her against the dryer. The metal was warm through her nightgown. "I want to be here. With you."
"Alex…"
"Tell me to go and I will." His thumb traced her pulse. "But if you don't…"
She didn't.
Instead she rose on tiptoe and brushed her lips to the corner of his mouth (soft, chaste, a mother's kiss). He turned into it, catching her lower lip between his. The kiss deepened, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against hers like he'd been starving for the taste.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
"Upstairs," she whispered. "Now."
He followed her up the basement stairs, her hand in his, the storm raging outside. The coffee was forgotten. The laundry sat warm and waiting.
In the hallway, she paused at his bedroom door.
"Tomorrow," she said, "we'll talk about rules."
"Tomorrow," he echoed, and pulled her inside.
The door clicked shut behind them.