Updated Apr 13, 2026 • ~17 min read
Chapter 6: Late Nights & Coffee
Oliver
Oliver Reyes has been working with Sage Thornwood for exactly one week, and he’s learned three critical things: first, she takes her coffee black with three shots of espresso and no sugar, which explains a lot about her personality; second, she’s brilliant in a way that makes his chest tight with admiration; and third, he’s absolutely, catastrophically falling for her, which is terrible timing considering they’re hunting an immortal entity that wants to kill her.
It’s eleven PM on a Thursday, and Oliver is climbing the stairs to Sage’s apartment with two cups of coffee from the twenty-four-hour café down the street, trying not to think about how this has become his favorite part of the day—not the research, though that’s fascinating, but the moment when Sage opens the door and her expression shifts from default irritation to something softer, just for a second, before she remembers to be grumpy.
He knocks—three times, their established pattern—and hears movement inside, books being shifted, Sage’s footsteps approaching.
The door opens, and there she is: hair escaping from its knot in ways that should be messy but somehow look artistic, wearing an oversized sweater that’s probably older than Oliver’s car, and those green eyes that could cut through steel but are currently just tired.
“You’re late,” she says, but she’s already stepping aside to let him in, so Oliver knows she’s not actually annoyed.
“Traffic,” Oliver lies, when really he spent an extra ten minutes at the café chatting with the barista about a curse she suspected her ex put on her apartment—minor hex, easily diagnosed, he gave her instructions for a simple salt cleansing and refused payment because helping people is more important than making money and also because he’d just spent the money Sage insisted on paying him for “consulting work.”
Sage’s apartment has become familiar over the past week—comfortingly so, in ways that Oliver probably shouldn’t examine too closely. Books are still stacked on every surface, herbs still hang in bundles from the ceiling, and the protective sigils carved into doorframes and windowsills still glow faintly when Oliver’s sensitivity is active, but now he knows which stacks of books are research materials and which are Sage’s personal collection, knows that the dried lavender by the window is for calming spells and the wolfsbane is for protection, knows that Sage reorganizes her magical supplies when she’s anxious because control over her environment is the only control she feels like she has.
He’s learned all of this by watching her, by paying attention in the way his abuela taught him—the kind of attention that sees beneath surface behavior to the reasons behind it—and Oliver knows he’s probably being obvious about his interest but he can’t help it, because Sage Thornwood is fascinating in ways that have nothing to do with her power and everything to do with who she is beneath the armor.
“Triple espresso, no sugar, right?” Oliver says, offering her one of the cups, and Sage takes it with both hands like it’s precious.
“How did you know?” she asks, and Oliver grins because she asks this every night, like she can’t believe someone would bother to remember her coffee order.
“You seem like bitter coffee personified,” Oliver says, which is also what he says every night, because the response has become part of their routine and routines are comforting when you’re hunting immortal monsters.
Sage’s mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile—it is a smile, brief and genuine—and Oliver’s heart does something complicated in his chest.
“Accurate,” she says, taking a sip and making a small sound of satisfaction that Oliver is definitely not going to think about later. “Thanks.”
She moves back to her workspace—the dining table that’s been completely overtaken by grimoires, laptops, and Daniel’s research files—and Oliver follows, settling into the chair across from her that’s become his by unspoken agreement.
This is how they’ve spent every evening for the past week: Oliver researching historical cases of entity attacks while Sage cross-references magical theory and tracks patterns in the Collector’s hunting behavior, both of them working in comfortable silence broken only by occasional observations or discoveries.
They work well together, and Oliver has stopped being surprised by how seamlessly they complement each other’s skills—he researches lore and historical records while she tracks magical signatures, he identifies curse patterns while she dismantles protective wards, he asks questions that make her think differently about problems while she provides magical context for theories he could never test himself.
It’s the best partnership Oliver has ever had, professional or otherwise, and that’s part of the problem because partnership is supposed to be about work and Oliver keeps catching himself watching Sage when she’s concentrating, noticing the way she chews her bottom lip when she’s thinking or how she taps her fingers against her grimoire in patterns that might be nervous habit or might be unconscious spell-casting.
“Find anything useful?” Sage asks, not looking up from the text she’s translating—something in Latin, because apparently hereditary witches learn dead languages the way normal people learn to ride bikes.
“Maybe,” Oliver says, pulling his laptop closer and turning it so Sage can see the screen. “I’ve been cross-referencing historical disappearances with your timeline, and there’s a pattern going back almost two hundred years. Clusters of witch disappearances, always the same MO—powers drained, bodies never found—and they happen in cycles. Twenty to thirty years of activity, then decades of dormancy.”
Sage leans forward to read his notes, and Oliver catches the scent of her shampoo—something herbal, rosemary maybe—and has to physically remind himself to focus on the research instead of how close she is.
“The dormancy periods are getting shorter,” Sage observes, finger tracing the timeline Oliver created. “First gap was almost fifty years, then forty, then thirty, and now it’s only been five years since my coven.”
“Which suggests the Collector needs more frequent feeding,” Oliver says, already pulling up another file. “I think the immortality ritual is degrading. Maybe it doesn’t work as well over time, or maybe the Collector’s body—or whatever they’re using as a physical anchor—is deteriorating faster.”
Sage sits back, coffee cup cradled in her hands, and Oliver can see the wheels turning behind her eyes.
“If the ritual is failing, that makes them more dangerous,” she says slowly. “Desperate. They need to complete the next version of the ritual before they lose cohesion entirely, which means they can’t afford to wait, can’t be patient the way they’ve been in previous cycles.”
“Right,” Oliver confirms, feeling that familiar thrill of collaborative discovery. “Which is why they’re hunting so aggressively now. Three witches in four weeks, when in previous cycles they spread out over months.”
“And it means we have less time than we thought,” Sage continues, and her expression has gone from tired to alert, the kind of focused intensity that Oliver finds both impressive and slightly terrifying. “If they’re on a deadline, they’ll take more risks, which gives us opportunities to track them but also means they’ll be more ruthless about eliminating threats.”
“Like investigators,” Oliver says quietly.
“Like us,” Sage confirms, meeting his eyes. “We need to be more careful.”
Oliver wants to argue that he’s always careful—except that’s a lie, he’s absolutely not careful, he jumped into this case knowing it was dangerous and he’d do it again because helping people is more important than safety—so instead he just nods and makes a mental note to be less obviously reckless so Sage doesn’t worry.
The fact that Sage might worry about him makes Oliver’s chest feel warm in ways that are definitely inappropriate given their professional relationship.
They work in silence for another hour, Oliver compiling historical data while Sage maps magical signatures across the Northeast, and Oliver is so absorbed in his research that he doesn’t notice they have a visitor until Rowan’s voice breaks the concentration.
“You two are cute together.”
Oliver looks up to find Sage’s apprentice standing in the doorway—apparently she has a key, which makes sense given that she practically lives here half the time—holding a bag of takeout that smells amazing and grinning like she’s just won a bet.
“Rowan,” Sage says, voice flat. “We’re working. Not cute.”
“You can be both,” Rowan says cheerfully, moving into the apartment and starting to unpack containers of Thai food onto the only clear corner of the table. “You’re collaborating, you have coffee, you’re bent over ancient texts together—it’s very romantic, in a nerdy way.”
“It’s professional,” Sage corrects, but Oliver notices she’s not meeting Rowan’s eyes, which is interesting.
“Sure it is,” Rowan agrees in a tone that suggests she doesn’t agree at all. “That’s why Oliver brings you coffee every night and you actually let him into your apartment, which you never do with anyone except me.”
Oliver tries very hard not to read into that, but his heart is already reading into it, already cataloging the fact that Sage letting him into her space is significant, is meaningful, is something she doesn’t do casually.
“He’s helping with the investigation,” Sage says, and she sounds more defensive than Oliver has ever heard her. “It’s practical to work here where all my resources are.”
“Uh-huh,” Rowan says, and she shoots Oliver a look that clearly communicates she knows exactly what’s happening here and finds it delightful. “Well, I brought dinner because I figured you two would forget to eat. Again.”
She’s right—Oliver has forgotten to eat, has been so focused on research that he hasn’t thought about food since lunch, and from the way Sage is eyeing the takeout containers, she’s in the same state.
“Thanks, Rowan,” Oliver says, because someone needs to be polite and Sage is still glaring at her apprentice like Rowan just committed a personal betrayal.
“You’re welcome! See, Oliver appreciates me,” Rowan says to Sage, starting to distribute food onto plates she’s pulled from the cabinet like she does this regularly. “You should take notes on gracious behavior.”
“I’ll take notes on how to fire apprentices,” Sage mutters, but she accepts the plate Rowan hands her and immediately starts eating, which means she’s not actually angry.
Rowan settles into a third chair—pulled from somewhere, Oliver’s not sure where—and starts her own dinner while simultaneously reading Oliver’s research over his shoulder.
“This is really good work,” she says after a moment, sounding genuinely impressed. “You found patterns the magical authorities missed.”
“That’s because the magical authorities are focused on magical solutions to magical problems,” Oliver says around a mouthful of pad thai. “Sometimes you need a mundane perspective to see what’s hiding in plain sight.”
“He’s annoyingly competent,” Sage says, and Oliver knows her well enough now to recognize that as a compliment.
“I’ll put that on my business cards,” Oliver says, grinning. “‘Oliver Reyes: Annoyingly Competent Curse-Breaker.'”
Sage rolls her eyes, but Oliver swears he sees her fight back a smile, and the warmth in his chest intensifies.
They eat while discussing the case—Rowan asking intelligent questions, Sage explaining magical theory, Oliver providing historical context—and it feels comfortable in ways that Oliver’s work usually doesn’t, because curse-breaking is typically solitary, just him and Daniel researching and then Oliver going out alone to handle cases.
This is different. This is collaborative, communal, and Oliver realizes with sudden clarity that he’s going to miss this when the case is over, is going to miss these late nights in Sage’s apartment with coffee and research and the easy way they’ve learned to work together.
He’s going to miss Sage, specifically, which is a problem because she’s made it very clear that this partnership is temporary and professional and Oliver needs to not catch feelings for someone who’s explicitly not interested.
Except he’s pretty sure it’s too late for that.
Rowan leaves around midnight with a knowing look directed at Oliver and a stern reminder to Sage to “actually sleep instead of researching until dawn,” and then it’s just Oliver and Sage again, the apartment quieter without Rowan’s sunshine energy filling it.
“She means well,” Sage says, like she’s apologizing for her apprentice’s enthusiasm.
“I like her,” Oliver says honestly. “She’s good for you.”
Sage looks at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you need people who aren’t afraid of you,” Oliver says, and he’s being more honest than is probably wise but exhaustion makes him reckless. “People who push past the walls and stick around anyway.”
Sage is quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, and Oliver wonders if he’s overstepped, if he’s about to get kicked out and uninvited from future research sessions.
“Rowan is persistent,” Sage finally says. “She showed up two years ago asking for apprenticeship and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Came back every day for a month until I agreed just to make her stop.”
“And now you care about her,” Oliver observes.
“She’s useful,” Sage says, but there’s no bite in it, just a kind of fond exasperation that tells Oliver everything he needs to know about how Sage actually feels about her apprentice.
“It’s okay to admit you have people you care about,” Oliver says gently. “It doesn’t make you weak.”
Sage looks at him again, and this time her expression is complicated—something between defensive and vulnerable, like she wants to argue but can’t quite make herself do it.
“Everyone I’ve ever cared about dies,” she says quietly. “Caring makes you a target. The Collector killed my coven because they were powerful and because they were mine. Caring is a liability.”
Oliver’s heart breaks a little, because he understands trauma, understands the way loss teaches you to protect yourself by refusing connection, but he also knows that isolation isn’t safety, it’s just another kind of death.
“Not caring doesn’t make you safer,” he says. “It just makes you alone.”
“Alone is safe,” Sage insists, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
“Alone is lonely,” Oliver counters. “There’s a difference.”
They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between them, and Oliver knows he should probably change the subject, should lighten the mood, but he’s never been good at leaving important things unsaid.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’m glad you let me help. I’m glad you’re not facing this alone.”
Sage meets his eyes, and Oliver sees something shift in her expression—softening, maybe, or recognition, or the beginning of trust that she’s been fighting against for the past week.
“You’re annoyingly persistent too,” she says, and it’s deflection but it’s also acknowledgment, and Oliver will take it.
“It’s one of my best qualities,” he agrees, grinning.
“It’s one of your most irritating qualities,” Sage corrects, but there’s no heat in it.
They return to research, but the atmosphere has changed—less professional, more personal, like they’ve crossed some invisible line into actual friendship instead of just collaborative partnership.
Oliver catches Sage watching him a few times over the next hour, her expression thoughtful, and he wonders what she’s thinking, what she sees when she looks at him.
He hopes she sees someone trustworthy. Someone who won’t leave when things get difficult. Someone who cares about her, even though caring is supposedly a liability.
By two AM, Oliver’s eyes are crossing from reading historical accounts of entity attacks, and Sage has gone through enough coffee that she’s probably going to vibrate into another dimension.
“We should call it a night,” Oliver says, closing his laptop. “We’re not going to solve this in one evening.”
“I know,” Sage says, but she’s still staring at her grimoire like it might reveal secrets if she glares at it hard enough.
“Sage,” Oliver says gently. “Sleep. The research will still be here tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow another witch might die,” Sage says, and there’s such rawness in her voice that Oliver wants to reach across the table and take her hand, wants to offer comfort in the only way he knows how.
He doesn’t, because Sage has made it clear she doesn’t want physical comfort, but he does offer the next best thing: understanding.
“We’re doing everything we can,” he says. “We’re making progress. We have leads. But burning yourself out won’t save anyone.”
Sage looks at him, and Oliver sees exhaustion in every line of her face, exhaustion and grief and the weight of five years of survival guilt.
“How do you stay optimistic?” she asks, and it sounds like a genuine question. “How do you keep believing things will work out when you’ve seen how badly they can go wrong?”
Oliver considers lying, considers giving her a cheerful platitude, but Sage deserves honesty.
“I don’t always believe things will work out,” he admits. “But I believe that trying is better than giving up. And I believe that even when things go wrong, there’s value in having fought. My abuela used to say that hope is a practice, not a feeling—you choose it every day, even when it’s hard.”
Sage is quiet, absorbing this, and Oliver watches emotions play across her face—skepticism, consideration, something that might be longing.
“Your grandmother sounds like she was wise,” Sage finally says.
“She was,” Oliver agrees. “And terrifying. And she made the best tamales in Boston. You would have liked her.”
“I don’t like people,” Sage says, but it’s automatic, lacking conviction.
“You like Rowan,” Oliver points out.
“Rowan is an exception.”
“Maybe I can be an exception too,” Oliver says before he can stop himself, and the words hang in the air between them, more vulnerable than he intended.
Sage looks at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and Oliver braces himself for rejection.
“Maybe,” Sage says quietly, and it’s not agreement but it’s not dismissal either, and Oliver’s heart does that complicated thing again.
He stands, gathering his laptop and notes, and Sage walks him to the door like she does every night, the protective wards humming with recognition as they approach.
“Same time tomorrow?” Oliver asks, and Sage nods.
“Bring coffee,” she says.
“Triple espresso, no sugar,” Oliver confirms. “I know.”
He’s halfway down the stairs when Sage calls after him, and he turns to find her standing in the doorway, backlit by the warm light of her apartment.
“Oliver,” she says, and it’s the first time she’s used his first name without prompting. “Thanks. For helping. For being… persistent.”
Oliver grins, feeling warmth spread through his chest despite the cold November night.
“Anytime,” he says, and he means it in ways that extend far beyond this case.
He drives home thinking about Sage almost-smiling, about the way she said his name, about the possibility of being an exception to her rules about not liking people.
Oliver Reyes is falling for Sage Thornwood, and it’s terrible timing and possibly dangerous and definitely complicated, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.
Because hope is a practice, not a feeling.
And Oliver has always been very good at practicing.
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