Updated Apr 13, 2026 • ~14 min read
Chapter 8: The Apology
Oliver
Oliver spends the entire night staring at his ceiling, replaying the moment Sage’s expression shifted from surprised to furious to devastated, and by the time dawn breaks over Boston, he’s decided three things: first, he fucked up worse than he’s ever fucked up anything in his entire life; second, standard apologies aren’t going to cut it; and third, he needs to prove to Sage that he respects her boundaries even if he’s already catastrophically violated them.
The problem is that Oliver has never been good at grand gestures—he’s more of a “consistent small kindnesses” person, which is great for building relationships but less effective when you need to communicate “I’m genuinely sorry and I understand exactly why what I did was wrong” in a single interaction.
He calls Daniel at six AM, which is rude but Daniel is already awake because Daniel sleeps even less than Oliver does.
“How badly did you screw up?” Daniel asks without preamble, because he knows Oliver well enough to recognize a crisis call.
“I investigated Sage’s coven massacre without her permission and she found the files and now she hates me and I need to fix it,” Oliver says in one breath.
“Jesus, Oliver.”
“I know.”
“That’s really bad.”
“I know!”
“Why would you—”
“Because I’m an idiot who wanted to understand what she survived so I could protect her from it happening again,” Oliver interrupts, running his hands through his hair. “Which I now realize is extremely presumptuous and invasive and basically proved all her worst assumptions about people using her for information.”
Daniel is quiet for a moment, and Oliver can hear him typing, probably already pulling up resources because that’s what Daniel does when problems arise.
“Okay,” Daniel finally says. “You need to apologize, obviously. But it has to be specific—acknowledge exactly what you did wrong, don’t make excuses, and don’t expect immediate forgiveness.”
“I wasn’t expecting forgiveness at all,” Oliver says miserably. “I just want her to know I’m genuinely sorry.”
“Then tell her that. And Oliver?” Daniel’s voice softens slightly. “Maybe also tell her why you care so much. I know you’re falling for her, and I think she needs to hear that this wasn’t just professional curiosity.”
Oliver’s chest tightens because hearing someone else say it makes it real in ways he’s been avoiding.
“What if that makes it worse? What if she thinks I’m just trying to manipulate her emotions?”
“Then you’ll have your answer about whether this is salvageable,” Daniel says gently. “But Oliver, you’ve never been good at hiding how you feel. She probably already knows.”
After hanging up with Daniel, Oliver spends two hours researching, but not the kind of research he usually does—this time he’s looking for an apology gift that actually means something, that shows he understands Sage enough to know what she’d value.
Flowers seem too generic, jewelry too presumptuous, books too impersonal.
And then he remembers something Sage said during one of their late-night research sessions, a throwaway comment about how she hates that nothing beautiful lasts, how everything she cares about eventually dies or disappears.
Oliver knows a witch in Cambridge—ELENA VASQUEZ, a plant mage who owed him a favor after he broke a persistent wilting curse on her greenhouse—and he shows up at her shop at eight AM with what is probably a wild look in his eyes.
“I need enchanted roses,” Oliver says without preamble. “The kind that never die. Whatever it costs.”
Elena looks at him with the knowing expression of someone who’s seen desperate men before. “Permanent enchantments are expensive.”
“I don’t care. I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“Must be some apology,” Elena observes, already moving to her greenhouse, and Oliver follows.
“I violated her trust,” Oliver says honestly. “I need to prove I respect her boundaries, and she values things that last.”
Elena nods like this makes sense and pulls out a beautiful set of black roses—deep red so dark they’re almost black, the kind of dramatic aesthetic that Sage would absolutely appreciate—and begins the enchantment process while Oliver watches.
It takes forty minutes and costs more than Oliver usually makes in a week, but when Elena hands him the roses, they’re humming with magic that even Oliver’s weak sensitivity can feel—a spell that will keep them alive and beautiful indefinitely, proof against time and decay.
“They’ll only die if she wants them to,” Elena says. “The magic is tied to her will. So if she keeps them, they’ll last forever.”
“Perfect,” Oliver says, cradling the roses carefully. “Thank you.”
“Good luck,” Elena calls after him. “You’ll need it.”
Oliver drives to Salem with the roses in a spelled container on his passenger seat, practicing his apology out loud and feeling increasingly certain that this is going to go terribly, but showing up is better than hiding, and Sage deserves a real apology even if she doesn’t accept it.
He parks outside Thornwood Occult at ten AM—late enough that Sage should be awake but early enough that maybe she hasn’t fully armored herself for the day—and takes a deep breath before heading to the door that leads to her apartment.
His hand is shaking when he knocks.
The wait feels endless, and Oliver is starting to think Sage isn’t going to answer, is going to make him stand here holding roses like an idiot until he gets the message and leaves, but then he hears the locks turning and the door opens a crack.
Sage looks terrible, which makes Oliver’s heart hurt—dark circles under her eyes, hair messier than usual, wearing the same clothes from yesterday like she never went to bed—and Oliver knows immediately that she didn’t sleep, probably spent the whole night researching or crying or both.
“Hi,” Oliver says, voice coming out smaller than he intended.
“What do you want?” Sage asks, and her voice is flat, drained of the fury from last night but also drained of everything else, like she’s too tired to maintain emotion.
“To apologize,” Oliver says. “Properly. If you’ll listen.”
Sage’s gaze drops to the roses in his hands, and something flickers in her expression—surprise, maybe, or curiosity—but she doesn’t invite him in, just stands in the doorway waiting.
Oliver takes that as permission to continue.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he puts everything he has into making her believe it. “I overstepped. I investigated your coven’s deaths and your personal history without your permission, and that was a massive violation of your privacy and your trust.”
Sage doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at him with those exhausted green eyes, so Oliver continues.
“Your trauma is yours to share, not mine to investigate. I had no right to dig into your past like you were a case instead of a person, and I especially had no right to question your survival like it was suspicious. You survived because you’re powerful and smart and prepared, not because of anything sinister.”
He takes a breath, gripping the roses tighter.
“I wasn’t trying to use you for information. I was trying to understand what you went through so I could protect you from it happening again, but that’s not an excuse—I should have asked permission, should have respected your boundaries, should have trusted you to share what you wanted to share in your own time.”
Sage’s expression is shifting now, something softening around her eyes, and Oliver sees his opening.
“I care about you,” he says quietly. “Not because of what you know or what you survived or what information you can provide. I care about you because you’re brilliant and fierce and you pretend to be cold but you’re actually one of the most protective people I’ve ever met. I care about you because you let me into your space even though trust is hard for you, because you work yourself to exhaustion trying to save people you’ve never met, because when you almost smile, it feels like the best thing I’ve seen all day.”
Oliver holds out the roses, and his hands are definitely shaking now.
“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,” he continues. “I know I broke something important between us. But I wanted you to know I’m genuinely sorry, and I understand if you don’t want to work with me anymore. Just… please don’t face the Collector alone. Call someone else, anyone else, just don’t do it by yourself.”
Sage is staring at the roses, and Oliver can see her swallow hard, can see her hands twitch like she wants to reach for them but won’t let herself.
“Where did you get these?” she finally asks, voice rough.
“A witch in Cambridge owed me a favor,” Oliver says. “They’re enchanted to never die. I thought you’d like something that lasts.”
Something in Sage’s expression cracks, and Oliver sees vulnerability flash across her face before she can hide it behind her usual walls.
“You remembered,” she says quietly. “That I said I hate when beautiful things don’t last.”
“I remember everything you tell me,” Oliver says honestly.
They stand there for a long moment, Oliver holding the roses, Sage looking like she’s fighting an internal battle, and Oliver braces himself for rejection, for her to thank him for the apology and tell him it’s not enough.
Instead, Sage opens the door wider.
“Come in,” she says, and Oliver’s heart jumps.
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t make me change my mind, Reyes.”
Oliver steps inside quickly, and Sage closes the door behind him, taking the roses with careful hands like they’re precious.
She moves to the kitchen—Oliver following at a respectful distance—and pulls down a vase from one of the high cabinets, filling it with water even though the roses don’t technically need it.
“I’m still angry,” Sage says without looking at him, arranging the roses in the vase with more care than Oliver has ever seen her handle anything. “What you did wasn’t okay.”
“I know,” Oliver says.
“But Rowan pointed out that people make mistakes,” Sage continues, finally turning to face him. “And your apology was… specific. And genuine. And you brought enchanted flowers instead of just expecting forgiveness.”
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” Oliver says quickly. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”
Sage looks at him for a long moment, and Oliver sees her defenses struggling, sees her wanting to push him away warring with her wanting to let him stay.
“Fine,” she finally says. “You’re not fired. Yet.”
Relief floods through Oliver so intensely it makes him dizzy. “We’re partners?”
“Don’t push it,” Sage warns, but there’s no real bite in her voice.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Oliver says, grinning despite himself, and Sage rolls her eyes but he swears he sees her fight back a smile.
She carries the vase to the dining table, placing it where she’ll see it while she works, and Oliver watches her touch one of the petals gently, like she can’t quite believe they’re real.
“They’re beautiful,” she says quietly.
“You deserve beautiful things,” Oliver says before he can stop himself, and Sage looks at him sharply.
“Don’t,” she says, but it sounds more like a plea than a command.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that. Don’t make this complicated.”
“Sage, this has been complicated since the moment I walked into your shop,” Oliver says gently. “But complicated doesn’t have to be bad.”
Sage looks away, fingers still touching the rose petals, and Oliver can see her struggling with something.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she finally admits. “How to trust people. How to let someone care about me without waiting for them to leave or die or betray me.”
Oliver’s chest aches because he knows that feeling, knows what it’s like to be afraid of connection after loss, and he wants to close the distance between them and offer comfort but he knows Sage isn’t ready for that.
“You don’t have to know how,” he says instead. “You just have to decide if you want to try.”
Sage is quiet, and Oliver watches emotions play across her face—fear, longing, determination—and then she takes a breath and meets his eyes.
“New rule,” she says. “No investigating my past without permission. If you want to know something, ask me directly.”
“Agreed,” Oliver says immediately.
“And if I tell you something is off-limits, you respect that boundary. Even if you think it would help the case.”
“Absolutely.”
“And you have to actually communicate instead of making assumptions about what I need.”
“I can do that,” Oliver promises, and he means it.
Sage nods slowly, like she’s accepting these terms, and then she gestures to the table where their research is still scattered.
“We have work to do,” she says. “And I made progress last night on the timeline. The next witch is going to be targeted within seventy-two hours.”
Oliver moves to the table, pulling out his laptop, and tries not to show how relieved he is to be allowed back into this space, into this partnership.
They work in silence for a while, falling back into their familiar pattern, and it’s not quite the same as before—there’s a carefulness now, a consciousness of boundaries that didn’t exist when they were still learning each other—but it’s also more honest, more real, because they’ve had a conflict and worked through it instead of pretending it didn’t happen.
After about an hour, Sage speaks without looking up from her grimoire.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For the apology. And the roses.”
“Thank you for giving me another chance,” Oliver responds.
“Don’t fuck it up,” Sage says, but when Oliver looks up, she’s almost-smiling, and he feels warmth spread through his chest.
“I’ll do my best,” he promises.
They return to research, and Oliver catches Sage glancing at the roses periodically, her expression softening each time, and he knows the enchantment worked better than he could have hoped—not because the roses are beautiful, but because they represent something Sage desperately needs: proof that some things can last, that not everything she cares about has to disappear.
Rowan shows up around lunch with sandwiches and stops dead when she sees Oliver sitting at the table.
“You’re back,” she observes, looking between Oliver and Sage with barely concealed delight.
“Unfortunately,” Sage says dryly.
“Provisionally,” Oliver clarifies.
“And you brought her enchanted roses?” Rowan is staring at the vase like it personally offended her. “Sage, he brought you enchanted roses.”
“I’m aware,” Sage says, but Oliver doesn’t miss the faint flush on her cheeks.
“That’s so romantic I might actually die,” Rowan declares, and Sage throws a pencil at her.
“We’re working. Stop making it weird.”
“It’s already weird,” Rowan says cheerfully. “You kept the roses. That’s basically a declaration of—”
“Rowan,” Sage warns.
“Fine, fine, I’ll stop. But for the record, I ship it.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Sage lies.
“Yes, you do,” Rowan and Oliver say simultaneously, and Sage glares at both of them but Oliver can see she’s fighting a smile.
After Rowan leaves—with many significant looks directed at the roses and at Oliver—the atmosphere settles into something comfortable again, and Oliver realizes they’ve turned a corner, moved from tentative partnership into something more solid.
The trust is rebuilt. Not the same as before, but stronger for having been tested.
And the roses sit in their vase, beautiful and permanent, a promise that some things can last if you’re willing to fight for them.
Oliver catches Sage looking at them again, and when she notices him watching, she doesn’t look away.
“They’re really beautiful,” she says again.
“So are you,” Oliver says before he can stop himself.
Sage’s eyes widen slightly, and Oliver braces for her to deflect or get angry, but instead she just holds his gaze for a long moment.
“You’re impossible,” she finally says, but there’s no heat in it.
“I’ve been told that before,” Oliver agrees, grinning.
“Get back to work, Reyes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
But Oliver doesn’t miss the small smile on Sage’s face as she returns to her grimoire, or the way she touches the rose petals one more time when she thinks he’s not looking.
And for the first time since last night, Oliver allows himself to hope that maybe—just maybe—this is going to work out after all.
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