One second the hallway was lit by the soft glow of the sconce, the next it was black. Elena's gasp was swallowed by the sudden roar of rain against the roof. Somewhere in the dark, Alex's hand found hers.
"Generator's in the garage," he said, voice steady.
"Candles first."
They moved by memory: her fingers trailing the wall, his thumb brushing her knuckles. In the kitchen she pulled the emergency drawer open, matches rattling. The first strike flared orange across his face (cheekbones sharp, eyes unreadable).
He took the match from her, lit the fat pillar candle on the island. Shadows leapt across the cabinets.
"Storm's right on top of us," he said.
Lightning answered, a white-hot flash that turned the windows into mirrors. For an instant she saw them reflected: mother and son, candle between them, holding hands like children afraid of the dark.
Thunder followed, so close the floor vibrated. Elena flinched. Alex stepped closer.
"You okay?"
"I hate storms," she admitted. The confession felt childish, but his arms came around her anyway, solid and warm. She pressed her face to his chest, breathing him in.
"I've got you."
They stayed like that while the house shook. Rain lashed the windows in sheets. The candle guttered, then steadied.
"Come on," he murmured. "Couch."
He led her to the den, candle in one hand, her fingers laced through his other. The leather sofa creaked as they sat. He tugged the old afghan from the back, draped it over both their laps.
Outside, the wind howled like something alive. Inside, the only light was the candle on the coffee table and the occasional strobe of lightning.
Elena's pulse slowed, but not from fear. Alex's thigh pressed against hers under the blanket, heat seeping through cotton and denim. She should move. Should create space. Instead she leaned into him, just a fraction.
He felt it. His arm slid along the back of the couch, not quite around her shoulders.
"Remember when you used to hide under my bed during thunderstorms?" she asked, soft.
"You'd crawl under with me. Read Where the Wild Things Are by flashlight."
"I was terrified you'd grow up and stop needing me."
His fingers brushed her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. "Never stopped."
Lightning again. This time the thunder cracked so loud the windows rattled. Elena jumped; the afghan slipped. Alex caught it, pulled it higher, and in the shuffle his hand landed on her bare knee.
Skin on skin.
Neither moved.
The candle flame danced, throwing gold across his knuckles. She watched, mesmerized, as his thumb swept a slow circle over her kneecap. Once. Twice.
"Alex…"
"I'm right here."
Another flash. In the white glare she saw his face (eyes fixed on her mouth, lips parted). The darkness rushed back, but the image burned behind her eyelids.
She turned toward him. The blanket shifted, pooling at their waists. Her nightgown had ridden up; the hem barely covered her thighs.
His hand slid higher, just an inch.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered.
She didn't.
Instead she shifted closer, until her forehead rested against his. Their breaths mingled (coffee, rain, want).
"I used to pray for storms," he said, voice rough. "When I was little. So you'd come to my room."
"I always came."
"I know." His nose brushed hers. "I just… wanted more."
The candle sputtered. Wax pooled at the base.
Elena's hand found his chest, palm flat over his heart. It hammered beneath cotton.
"More like what?" she asked.
"Like this."
He kissed her.
Not the tentative brush from the laundry room. This was slow, deliberate (lips parting hers, tongue sliding in to taste). She made a small sound, half-sob, half-moan, and opened for him. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek as if she were something fragile and priceless.
The storm raged on, forgotten.
She climbed into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his hips. The afghan fell to the floor. His hands settled on her waist, gripping the thin fabric of her nightgown.
Mom," he breathed against her mouth. "God, Mom."
She kissed him harder, fingers threading through his hair. He was already hard beneath her, thick and unmistakable through his sweatpants. She rocked once, instinctive, and he groaned into her mouth.
Lightning lit the room again. She saw herself in his eyes (hair wild, lips swollen, utterly lost).
"We shouldn't," she whispered.
"I know."
But neither stopped.
His hands slid under her nightgown, palms skating up her bare back. She arched, pressing closer. The candle flame wavered, throwing their shadows against the wall (two silhouettes merging into one).
Thunder rolled, long and low.
Alex pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. "I want to touch you everywhere."
Her answer was a shuddering breath. She took his hand, guided it between her legs. No panties (she hadn't worn any since the laundry room). His fingers found her slick, swollen.
"Jesus," he hissed. "You're soaked."
"For you," she said, the words raw. "Only you."
He circled her clit once, twice, watching her face. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
"Quiet," he murmured, lips against her ear. "Just us and the storm."
She came apart slowly, hips rolling against his hand, his name a broken prayer. He held her through it, fingers gentle, reverent, until she sagged against his chest.
The candle burned lower.
After, he tucked her against his side, pulled the afghan over them both. She listened to his heartbeat, steady now, and the rain easing into a soft patter.
"We'll talk tomorrow," she said, echoing Chapter 2.
"Tomorrow," he agreed, kissing her temple.
But tomorrow felt a lifetime away.
Outside, the storm moved on, leaving the world washed clean. Inside, Elena drifted to sleep in her son's arms, the taste of him still on her tongue, the scent of candle smoke and sex in the air.
The power never came back on.