Updated Apr 13, 2026 • ~7 min read
Chapter 18: The Confession
Sage
Sage can’t stop replaying the moment she felt Oliver dying through the bond—the terror, the pain, the absolute certainty that she was going to lose him—and every time she does, her chest gets tight and her magic flares protectively and she has to physically resist the urge to check that he’s still breathing.
He’s fine. He’s sleeping on her couch, healed, safe, warded so thoroughly that nothing short of the Collector themselves could get through her protections.
But Sage still can’t calm down.
“You need to sleep,” Morgan says from where she’s sitting at the dining table, keeping watch while Sage paces. “You used a lot of power healing him. You’re going to burn yourself out.”
“I can’t sleep,” Sage says, moving to the window for the hundredth time, checking wards she knows are intact.
“Because you’re in love with him and almost losing him broke something in you,” Morgan observes with her usual bluntness.
Sage wants to deny it, but what’s the point? She already admitted it to Oliver, and Morgan can see right through her anyway.
“I told him,” Sage admits quietly.
“That you love him?”
“Yes.”
Morgan is quiet for a moment, and when Sage finally looks at her, her ex-girlfriend is wearing an expression that’s complicated—sad, maybe, but also genuinely happy.
“Good,” Morgan says. “He loves you too. In case the magical bond and the fact that he keeps almost dying for you weren’t clear enough indicators.”
“I know,” Sage says, moving away from the window to sink into a chair. “I can feel it through the bond. It’s terrifying.”
“Love usually is,” Morgan agrees. “Especially for people like us who’ve lost too much.”
Sage looks at Morgan properly for the first time since she arrived days ago, really looks, and sees shadows under her eyes that match Sage’s own, exhaustion that goes beyond physical.
“I’m sorry,” Sage says quietly. “For how I ended things five years ago. For pushing you away when you were trying to help.”
“You were grieving,” Morgan says with the kind of understanding Sage doesn’t deserve. “And I was pushy. We were both doing our best with an impossible situation.”
“You still care about me,” Sage observes, because the bond has made her more aware of emotional currents, better at reading what people aren’t saying.
“I’ll always care about you,” Morgan admits. “But I’m not in love with you anymore, Sage. I moved on. And seeing you with Oliver—you’re different with him. Softer. More yourself.”
“I’m terrified with him,” Sage corrects.
“Same thing, sometimes,” Morgan says, smiling slightly.
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, and Sage feels something settle—closure, maybe, or just the acknowledgment that some relationships are meant to transform rather than endure.
“When this is over,” Morgan says, “when the Collector is dead—what are you going to do?”
“Assuming I survive?” Sage asks.
“You’ll survive,” Morgan says with certainty. “You’re too stubborn to die. But after—are you going to let yourself be happy? Let yourself have this with Oliver?”
Sage doesn’t know how to answer that, because happiness feels like tempting fate, like setting herself up for devastating loss.
“I don’t know if I remember how to be happy,” Sage admits.
“Then you’ll have to learn,” Morgan says. “And Oliver seems like a good teacher.”
Sage thinks about Oliver—his relentless optimism, his terrible jokes, the way he looks at her like she’s something precious—and feels warmth bloom in her chest.
“He is,” she agrees quietly.
Movement from the couch draws her attention, and Sage realizes Oliver is awake, watching them with the kind of careful awareness that suggests he’s been conscious for a while.
“Sorry,” he says, sitting up. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“It’s your apartment too now, apparently,” Morgan says, standing and stretching. “I’m going to go get coffee and give you two some privacy. Sage, don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
“I don’t do stupid things,” Sage protests.
“You absolutely do,” Morgan and Oliver say simultaneously, and Sage glares at both of them.
Morgan leaves with a knowing smile, and then it’s just Sage and Oliver in the pre-dawn quiet, and Sage doesn’t know how to start this conversation, doesn’t know how to talk about feelings without the urgency of life-threatening danger forcing her hand.
“Come here,” Oliver says, patting the couch beside him, and Sage moves without thinking, settling next to him in a way that’s becoming familiar.
Through the bond, she can feel his emotions clearly: love, concern, determination, affection.
“I can’t lose you,” Sage says, because apparently she’s decided to lead with vulnerability. “After feeling you almost die through the bond—Oliver, I can’t go through that again.”
“You won’t have to,” Oliver says.
“You can’t promise that,” Sage argues. “We’re about to go up against an immortal entity. Either of us could die.”
“Then let’s not die,” Oliver suggests, and his optimism should be annoying but instead it’s comforting.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is, actually,” Oliver says, taking her hand. “We have Morgan’s help, we have the medallion, we have a plan. We’re going to destroy the anchor, bind the Collector, and survive. And then I’m going to take you on a real date.”
“Presumptuous,” Sage says, but she’s smiling.
“Optimistic,” Oliver corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Sage is quiet for a moment, thumb tracing patterns on Oliver’s palm, feeling his warmth through their joined hands and through the bond.
“I meant what I said,” she finally admits. “Earlier. I love you. And I’m sorry it took almost losing you for me to say it, and I’m sorry I’m terrible at this, and I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing,” Oliver interrupts gently. “You said it. That’s what matters. And Sage?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you too,” Oliver says, and through the bond Sage feels the depth of it, feels how completely he means it. “I’ve loved you since you first glared at me and told me to get out of your shop. Maybe even before that. And I’m going to keep loving you through this fight and after it, assuming we both survive.”
“When we survive,” Sage corrects, borrowing his optimism.
“When we survive,” Oliver agrees, grinning.
Sage kisses him then, slow and sweet and filled with all the things she’s too scared to say out loud—thank you for staying, thank you for being patient, thank you for making me hope again.
When they break apart, Oliver is looking at her with such genuine affection that Sage feels her defenses crack further.
“After this is over,” she says quietly, “I want to try. Actually try. Not just survive together but live together. Build something that’s not just about fighting.”
“I’d like that,” Oliver says. “Though I’m keeping the couch arrangement until you explicitly invite me to your bed.”
“Deal,” Sage agrees, and through the bond she feels Oliver’s surprise and delight.
They spend the rest of the dawn hours like that—tangled together on the couch, talking about futures they might not have, making plans they might not get to keep—and when Morgan returns with coffee, she finds them asleep in each other’s arms, the bond between them glowing faintly with shared contentment.
Morgan doesn’t wake them, just reinforces the wards and lets them rest, because tomorrow they’re going to destroy the medallion and face the Collector, and they need whatever peace they can get before the storm.
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