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Finn must think she's hidden well enough with the dark cover of the night, lingering as she is just outside of the apartment window. It's been an hour since she'd stormed out of Maron's bedroom in a whirlwind of furious confessions—
(I've always hated you, Maron.
You were all alone until you met me, weren't you?
My betrayal will be the final act of tearing you apart.
Goodbye, Maron.)
—and yet.
Finn is still here.
Maron can see the sharp glint of her eyes, reflecting back when the light hits just right.
It should be unsettling, shouldn't it? In some distant place within her, Maron recognizes that it should. Finn's betrayal lays between them like a thin sheet of fresh, untested ice. But Maron thinks she can see the cracks lining that deceptive surface, the wells of warm spring water beneath.
For all that Finn has said, Maron can't quite bring herself to believe any of it. Her Finn wouldn't do that to her. Her Finn has always been a light, guiding her through the dark. Her Finn has always watched over her, has always made sure Maron was safe - just as she's doing now.
Maron takes a shaky breath and scrubs long-dried tears from her cheeks, smiling softly.
It's easy to set her dining table for two, just as she's done every night for the last sixteen years. Easy to pour two cups of that sweet fruit tea Finn loves. Easy to leave their little bee-shaped honey pot next to the cup that isn't hers, so Finn can add as much as she likes, when she's ready.
Maron watches, her own cup in her hands, as steam curls up into the air. Watches as it cools, and smiles to herself as she leaves it behind, still sitting untouched on the table when she goes off to bed. She catches the outline of Finn in the window still, and feels warm when she wraps herself in her covers, even if this will be the first night she's spent alone in years.
When Maron wakes in the morning, the mug is empty, and her heart is light.
Finn will come home. Maron will just have to wait until she’s ready.