She stayed there for several hours, drifting in and out of sleep. Nathan's shoulder had been favoured over the pillow, and a hand had creeped onto his chest again, feeling the rhythm of his lungs filling and flattening. The fabric of his shirt was warm, from the edge of his waistband to the tops of his buttons; and still smelled somewhat of the laundry detergent she'd finally managed to switch out for the oddly scented off-brand he'd been using because 'all of it was the same'.
Finally, after rousing herself enough to turn over and blink blearily at the bedside clock, she decided it was best to return to the other bed before the boys awoke or Peter returned from patrol. Carefully, she repositioned Nathan's sleep-limp arm, leaving it on his chest in the approximate place hers had been, and slid out from the edge of the covers. The chilly air turned the skin of her arms into legions of goosebumps, and her head gave garbled orders to fall back for the covers. She made a few valiant attempts to rub them away, but eventually gave up, and stepped back into her shoes. The soles were cold, but she told herself they would warm up fast. A quick turn back to the bed brought the sleeping Nathan back into her line of vision. There was a tiny sting of satisfaction, knowing he had left her to wake up alone more than any wife should have tolerated, for reasons no person should have put up with, but it was quickly followed by a heavy wave of guilt, and the remaining strongholds of pettiness were taken out in a flash-flood of regret.
She pulled her lips in, and compressed them. The taste of the kiss was still there, but the air and passing time had bittered it slightly. Leaning over the bed, she refreshed it, breif and careful, to carry her out the door and back to the empty bed, where she watched the boys sleep for the rest of the night; finding the traces of him in their faces.