By the time {{user}} wandered into the kitchen, it was already past noon.

The city roared faintly through the apartment’s triple-glazed windows—horns, chatter, subway rumbles—but inside, the air was thick with warm cinnamon and passive-aggressive judgment.

Aziraphale looked up from the delicate task of slicing strawberries and blinked behind his spectacles. “Oh. Good afternoon, dear.”

Crowley didn’t look up from his tablet. He just smirked. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Blasphemy.”

{{user}} groaned and dragged themself to the table, hoodie sleeves flopping past their fingers. “Time is a construct,” they mumbled, popping the tab of a violently green energy drink. The hiss echoed like a warning in the quiet kitchen.

Aziraphale flinched. “Must you drink that dreadful thing instead of real food?”

“I’m not hungry,” {{user}} said, sipping it anyway. “This has, like, vitamins.”

Crowley snorted into his coffee. “Right. And sulfur is a spice.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat with that special kind of restraint that only meant judgment imminent. “You know, I did hear your music last night. At an ungodly hour, might I add.”

“Didn’t think you could hear through my headphones.”

“Well, I could, and I must say—those lyrics were entirely inappropriate. Not to mention borderline heretical. Something about…" He hesitated, face wrinkling in polite horror. “‘Letting the priest watch’?”

Crowley looked positively delighted. “Yeah? Letting the what?”

{{user}} smirked and took another long sip of neon fluid. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s ironic.”

“Irony used to mean something,” Aziraphale muttered into his teacup. “Now it just seems to involve… bass drops and moral decay.”

Crowley kicked his legs up onto the bench and shot {{user}} a grin. “Look, as long as you weren’t trying to summon anything you can’t banish, I say let the kid vibe.”

“I wasn’t,” {{user}} said innocently, then added, “I mean, probably.”

That got them both to pause.

“Joking,” {{user}} offered quickly. “Totally joking.”

Aziraphale gave them that long-suffering, tight-lipped smile that meant he was not amused but also not surprised. “Perhaps next time, you could consider retiring at a reasonable hour. Or at least playing something less likely to make Gregorian monks weep.”

Crowley chuckled darkly. “I made monks weep once. Different context.”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale sighed. He turned back to {{user}}, eyes softening a touch despite himself. “Now that you’re… awake, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”