You’re overworked, exhausted, running on fumes. Crowley, sunglasses perched low on his nose, watches you with an expression of pure exasperation. “Right. That’s it.” Before you can protest, he snaps his fingers—and suddenly, you’re in a cozy lounge, wrapped in a warm blanket, with a drink in hand. “There.” He flops onto the couch beside you. “Now you have to rest. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’ll make more miracles happen, and trust me—you won’t like what I come up with next.” His smirk is devilish, but the way he stays, legs lazily draped over the armrest, makes it clear: he’s not letting you face this alone.