The taxi's taillights bled red into the dusk, then vanished around the corner. Elena Harper stayed on the porch long after the sound of the engine had faded, arms folded tight across her chest as if she could hold the evening chill inside her ribs. Mark had kissed her cheek (dry, perfunctory) and promised to call when he landed in Tokyo. She'd nodded, smiled the small polite smile she'd perfected over twenty-two years of marriage, and watched him leave. Again.
Behind her, the front door creaked.
"Mom?"
Alex's voice was soft, careful, the way it always was when he sensed the air in the house had shifted. She turned. He filled the doorway, six-two now, shoulders broader than his father's had ever been, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. The porch light caught the faint stubble along his jaw and the worry in his dark eyes.
"He's gone," she said, unnecessary.
Alex stepped outside, hands in his pockets. "Flight's at nine. He'll be over the Pacific by midnight." He paused, studying her face. "You okay?"
Elena forced a laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm always okay when you're here."
He smiled at that (small, private, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for scraped knees and bedtime stories). Then he tilted his head toward the kitchen. "I was gonna make that pasta thing you like. The one with the lemon and the shrimp. Figured we could eat before I head back to the dorms tomorrow."
"You're staying tonight," she said. Not a question.
"If you want."
She did. God, she did.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of Mark's cologne (something sharp and expensive that never quite suited him) and the lavender candle she burned to cover it. Alex moved around the kitchen with the easy confidence of someone who'd grown up watching her cook. He pulled the cutting board from its slot, the good knife from the block. Elena leaned against the counter, wineglass in hand, and let herself watch.
He'd been home for three days of his summer break, and every minute had felt like a held breath. The way he reached past her for the olive oil, forearm brushing her hip. The way he laughed at her terrible jokes. The way he lingered in doorways, as if leaving a room meant leaving her.
"Need help?" she asked.
"I got it." He glanced over his shoulder. "But you can keep me company."
She set her glass down and moved behind him, close enough to see the faint sheen of perspiration at the nape of his neck. The kitchen was warm; the AC had been wheezing all week. She reached past him for the garlic, and their fingers brushed over the cutting board.
A spark.
Not static. Something slower, heavier. Elena's breath caught. Alex froze, knife suspended above the clove. For a long moment neither of them moved. Then he pressed the garlic flat with the blade (crack) and the spell cracked with it.
"Sorry," she murmured.
"Don't be." His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. "Pass the shrimp?"
They worked in silence after that, the kind of silence that hums. She peeled. He sautéed. The sizzle of butter filled the space between them. When the pasta water boiled, he lifted the pot with one hand, muscles flexing under the sleeve of his hoodie, and she felt it low in her belly (an ache she had no right to name).
They ate at the island, knees almost touching. Alex twirled linguine around his fork with the same careful focus he used to give to Legos when he was six. Elena watched his mouth, the way his lips closed around the tines, and hated herself for it.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Long day."
"Dad'll be gone two weeks this time."
She nodded. "He always says it's the last big trip."
Alex set his fork down. "You believe him?"
"No." The word slipped out before she could soften it. She laughed, shaky. "I mean (yes). Of course. He's just… busy."
Alex's eyes flicked to the empty chair at the head of the table, then back to her. "You don't have to sleep alone, Mom."
The room tilted.
He said it gently, almost innocently, but the air thickened until she could taste it. Elena's pulse thudded in her throat.
"I'm right down the hall," he added, softer. "If you get cold. Or… whatever."
She should laugh it off. Should ruffle his hair like he was still ten. Instead she reached across the island and covered his hand with hers. His skin was warm, calloused from summer landscaping.
"I know, baby," she whispered. "Thank you."
Later, she stood at the sink rinsing plates while he dried. Their hips bumped. Neither moved away. When the last dish was stacked, he turned off the faucet and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.
"Movie?" he asked.
"It's late."
"Not that late."
She hesitated, then nodded. They ended up on the couch in the den, the one with the worn leather that smelled faintly of Mark's cigars. Alex picked something old (When Harry Met Sally) because he knew she loved it. He dimmed the lights. She pulled the throw blanket over their laps.
Halfway through, the power flickered. The screen went black. Thunder rumbled, distant but growing.
"Storm's coming," he said.
Elena's heart raced for reasons that had nothing to do with lightning. The room was dark except for the glow of the DVD menu. She could feel the heat of him beside her, the solid weight of his thigh under the blanket.
"Alex," she started, then stopped.
He turned his head. Their faces were inches apart. "Yeah?"
She swallowed. "Nothing. Just… I'm glad you're here."
His hand found hers under the blanket, fingers threading slowly, deliberately. He didn't squeeze. Just held.
"Me too," he said.
Outside, the first raindrops hit the windows. Inside, Elena's world narrowed to the warmth of her son's palm against hers and the terrifying, exquisite certainty that two weeks would never be enough.