Chapel
The only light in Patrick's room was the soft blue glow of a nightlight in the shape of a long-extinct sea creature. Christine could see her son curled up under a mound of covers to one side of the bed and smiled at the distinctly mom-sized space made available for her, even in sleep. A stack of picture books laying on the floor by the bed caused a small sting in Christine's heart as she listened to Patrick's soft, even breathing.
She had missed bedtime again, the third time this rotation. She knew she'd make it up to Patrick with an extra book tomorrow night (though considering the time on the chrono, she'd be more accurate referring to it as tonight) and maybe a special breakfast in the morning since she was due for a full cycle off before switching to a rotation on gamma shift.
Though that would ensure even more missed bedtime stories, at least she'd spend the rotation on board rather than planetside on the outreach rotation, at the mercy of diplomacy and weather-related interruptions that could unexpectedly delay the end of her shifts and the return to her son.
Regardless of those frustrations, with the successful delivery of the bulk of the newly-developed vaccines and confirmed plans for distribution by the Kieressians themselves throughout the next week, Christine could sleep more peacefully knowing that fewer parents on the planet would have to sit vigil at their sick child's bedsides wondering if they would survive the night. And that served as a balm to her conscience, however inadequate it was in the face of her mother's guilt.
It was that thought that made Christine's decision for her: though she would both probably sleep more soundly in her own bed, she couldn't resist accepting the invitation to curl up next to her not-a-baby-anymore, run her fingers through his silky blond hair, and fall asleep to the sound of his soft breaths.