Updated Apr 13, 2026 • ~12 min read
Chapter 11: The Morning After
Sage
Sage wakes up at dawn to the sound of Oliver moving around her kitchen, and for a disorienting moment she thinks she’s still dreaming—dreams where she’s not alone, where someone makes coffee and hums quietly and exists in her space without it feeling like an invasion—but then she remembers last night, remembers the kiss, remembers the way Oliver held her while she broke down, and she realizes this is actually her life now, complicated and terrifying and real.
She lies in bed for longer than she should, staring at her ceiling, trying to figure out how to face Oliver after what happened, after she kissed him back like she was starving for connection, after she admitted—however reluctantly—that maybe, possibly, she might want something more than professional partnership.
The smell of coffee drifts through her apartment, and Sage finally drags herself out of bed because avoiding Oliver isn’t going to make this less awkward, and hiding in her room would give him entirely too much satisfaction.
He’s standing at her kitchen counter when she emerges, wearing the same clothes from yesterday and looking remarkably cheerful for someone who slept on a couch and is being hunted by an immortal entity, and when he sees her he smiles in a way that makes Sage’s chest do something complicated.
“Morning,” Oliver says, offering her a mug of coffee that’s already prepared exactly how she likes it. “I made breakfast. Sort of. It’s toast. I’m not actually a good cook but I can operate a toaster without burning your apartment down.”
Sage takes the coffee, deliberately not letting their fingers brush because touching Oliver right now feels dangerous after last night.
“Thanks,” she says, moving to sit at the dining table where their research is still scattered, a safe neutral space that doesn’t require looking at him directly.
Oliver follows with his own coffee and a plate of toast that does, indeed, look professionally toasted, and settles across from her in what’s become his chair, and they sit in silence that’s heavier than it should be, loaded with everything they’re not saying.
“About last night—” Sage finally starts, because one of them needs to address this and it’s clearly going to have to be her.
“We don’t have to talk about it—” Oliver interrupts, and Sage can hear the careful neutrality in his voice, like he’s trying to give her an out.
“Yes, we do,” Sage says firmly, setting down her coffee so she doesn’t have something to hide behind. “We kissed. That happened. And we need to… address it.”
Oliver nods slowly, and Sage can see him shift into listening mode, that focused attention he gives when something important is happening.
“I don’t do relationships,” Sage says, and she knows she’s said this before but it bears repeating. “People I love die. My parents, my coven, even my grandmother who taught me everything I know about magic—everyone I’ve ever let myself care about has been taken from me, and I can’t… I can’t go through that again.”
“Okay,” Oliver says quietly.
“And you’re human,” Sage continues, needing to get this all out before she loses her nerve. “Which means you’re fragile in ways witches aren’t, which means you’re going to die eventually anyway even if the Collector doesn’t kill you first, which means caring about you is basically signing up for inevitable devastating loss.”
“Also fair,” Oliver agrees, and Sage can’t tell if he’s being patient or if she’s actually hurting him with this.
“Plus we’re in the middle of a case that could get both of us killed, and emotions compromise judgment, and I need to stay focused if I’m going to have any chance of surviving what’s coming,” Sage says, and she’s definitely rambling now, listing every reason this is a terrible idea because if she stops talking she’s going to have to hear Oliver’s response and she’s not ready for that.
“Sage,” Oliver says gently, and something in his tone makes her stop, makes her finally meet his eyes.
“What?” she asks, sounding more defensive than she intended.
“I’m not asking for a relationship,” Oliver says, and his voice is kind, honest in ways that make Sage’s defenses want to crumble. “I’m not asking you to promise me forever or put a label on whatever this is or compromise your focus on the case.”
“Then what are you asking?” Sage demands, because this would be easier if Oliver wanted things she could definitively refuse.
“Nothing,” Oliver says simply. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m just telling you that I have feelings for you, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t just to make things less complicated.”
Sage stares at him, wrong-footed by his honesty. “Oliver—”
“You don’t have to feel the same,” Oliver interrupts, and there’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. “You don’t have to act on it or acknowledge it or do anything at all with that information. But don’t ask me to unfeel it, because I can’t. I care about you, Sage. I’m attracted to you, I admire you, I want to be around you, and that’s just… how it is.”
“That’s not fair,” Sage says, and she hates how her voice shakes. “You can’t just admit you have feelings and then say I don’t have to do anything about it. That’s not how this works.”
“Why not?” Oliver asks, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating calmness. “Why can’t I just care about you without requiring reciprocation? Why does my having feelings mean you’re obligated to sort out yours?”
“Because—” Sage starts, and then stops because she doesn’t have a good answer, because Oliver is right in a way that’s deeply uncomfortable.
“I know you’re scared,” Oliver continues, voice soft. “I know loss has taught you that caring is dangerous. And I’m not trying to pressure you into feeling something you don’t feel or being vulnerable in ways that terrify you. I’m just being honest about where I stand.”
“Which is where, exactly?” Sage asks, and she needs to know, needs to understand what Oliver actually wants from this conversation.
“I care about you,” Oliver says simply. “I’d like to see where this could go, when we’re not being hunted by an immortal witch hunter. But if that’s not what you want, if you need this to stay professional, I can work with that too. I’m not going to make things weird or pressure you or leave the case because you don’t return my feelings.”
Sage feels something crack in her chest because Oliver is being so genuinely patient, so completely honest, and she doesn’t know how to handle someone who offers caring without demanding anything in return.
“I do feel the same,” she admits quietly, and the words taste like surrender. “That’s the problem. I kissed you back last night because I wanted to, because some stupid part of me has been wanting to since you showed up with enchanted roses and apologized like you actually meant it, and that terrifies me more than Nathaniel Thorne does.”
Oliver’s expression softens, and Sage sees hope flicker in his eyes. “Why does that terrify you?”
“Because wanting something means it can be taken away,” Sage says, and her throat is tight with fear and truth. “Because every time I’ve cared about someone, they’ve died, and I barely survived losing my coven—I don’t think I could survive losing you too.”
“Sage—”
“And you’re going to tell me that I can’t live my life avoiding connection out of fear,” Sage interrupts, because she knows where this is going. “That isolation isn’t safety, that caring is worth the risk, that your grandmother probably had some wise saying about how love is the only thing worth being brave for.”
“She did, actually,” Oliver says, smiling slightly. “But I wasn’t going to quote it because you’d probably hex me.”
Despite everything, Sage feels her mouth twitch toward a smile. “Smart.”
They sit in silence for a moment, toast forgotten, coffee cooling, and Sage feels like they’re standing at a crossroads where one path leads to continued isolation and safety and the other leads to terrifying, beautiful possibility.
“I’m falling for you,” Sage finally admits, voice barely above a whisper. “And I hate it. I hate that you make me laugh, and that you bring me coffee without being asked, and that you stayed even after I tried to push you away. I hate that when I look at you I start thinking about futures that aren’t just survival. I hate that you make me hope.”
Oliver is very still, and when Sage dares to look at him, his expression is unguarded in ways that make her chest ache.
“Why do you hate hope?” he asks quietly.
“Because hope is what gets you killed,” Sage says. “Hope makes you careless. Hope makes you think maybe this time will be different, and then it isn’t, and you end up devastated.”
“Or,” Oliver suggests gently, “hope makes life worth living even when things are hard. Hope is what lets you keep going when everything seems impossible. Hope is what’s gotten you through the last five years, even if you won’t admit it.”
Sage wants to argue, wants to insist that she’s survived on anger and stubbornness and defensive magic, not hope, but she knows Oliver is right, knows that somewhere beneath all her walls she’s been hoping—hoping the Collector wouldn’t return, hoping she could build a life worth living, hoping that maybe someday she wouldn’t be so desperately alone.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Sage admits. “How to care about someone without waiting for them to leave.”
“You don’t have to know how,” Oliver says, and he reaches across the table—not touching her, just offering his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. “You just have to decide if you want to try.”
Sage looks at his hand, at this offering of connection, and she knows taking it is a choice, is permission to hope, is the beginning of letting someone matter in ways that could destroy her.
She takes his hand anyway.
Oliver’s fingers close around hers, warm and steady, and Sage feels something settle in her chest, some tension she’s been carrying for five years finally easing.
“I want to try,” she says, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. “But I need time. And patience. And for you to understand that I’m probably going to panic and push you away multiple times before I get comfortable with this.”
“I can work with that,” Oliver says, smiling in that gentle way that makes Sage want to kiss him again and also maybe hex him just on principle.
“And we’re still not having a relationship until after the case is closed,” Sage adds. “Because I need to stay focused, and you’re extremely distracting.”
“Extremely distracting?” Oliver repeats, grinning wider. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” Sage lies.
“Sure it wasn’t,” Oliver agrees in that tone that means he knows she’s lying.
Sage rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t let go of his hand, and when she takes a sip of her coffee with her free hand, she allows herself to feel the warmth of connection, of possibility, of maybe-someday-if-we-survive.
“So what happens now?” Sage asks, because she needs clear parameters, needs to know what this means for their dynamic.
“Now we finish this case,” Oliver says, squeezing her hand gently before releasing it. “We figure out how to kill Nathaniel Thorne, we stop him from taking more witches, we survive. And then, if you still want to, we figure out what this is between us.”
“And if I don’t survive?” Sage asks, because the possibility is real and needs to be acknowledged.
“Then I’m going to be devastated,” Oliver says honestly. “But I’m still glad I met you. Still glad I got to know you. Still glad we had this, whatever this ends up being.”
Sage’s throat is tight again, but this time it’s not just fear—it’s also something that might be gratitude, might be affection, might be the beginning of love she’s too scared to name.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, voice rough.
“I’ve been told that before,” Oliver agrees cheerfully.
“And annoyingly optimistic.”
“Also accurate.”
“And you make me want things I’ve spent five years convincing myself I don’t need,” Sage says, and it sounds like an accusation but feels like a confession.
“Good,” Oliver says, and his smile is soft, understanding, patient in ways Sage doesn’t deserve. “You deserve to want things, Sage. You deserve to be happy.”
Sage doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she just drinks her coffee and lets Oliver’s words settle into the spaces where her walls used to be, and for the first time in five years, she allows herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he’s right.
They finish breakfast and return to research, but something has shifted between them—less careful, more honest, and when Oliver makes a joke about historically terrible witch hunters and Sage laughs despite herself, she catches him looking at her with such genuine joy that her heart does something complicated.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Sage says, trying to sound annoyed and failing.
“Like what?” Oliver asks innocently.
“Like I’m something precious.”
“Can’t help it,” Oliver says, grinning. “You are something precious.”
“I’m going to hex you,” Sage threatens.
“You say that a lot but you never actually do it,” Oliver points out.
“I’m building up to it,” Sage says. “One day you’re going to wake up as a frog and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Worth it,” Oliver declares, and Sage throws a pen at him, and when he catches it and throws it back, she feels something warm unfurl in her chest.
Maybe this is what hope feels like.
Maybe Oliver Reyes is going to destroy her.
But maybe—just maybe—he’s also going to save her.
Sage decides she’s willing to find out.
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