Crowley settled into the familiar table of The Ritz, one arm draped casually over the back of the chair, the other gripping a glass of something dangerously strong. Aziraphale arrived moments later, adjusting his coat and scanning the room as if he might need to reprimand someone for an imaginary infraction. Crowley tilted his chair back slightly, watching Aziraphale fuss with his napkin as though it might reveal some hidden moral failing. He had always found the angel’s tiny rituals endearing in a way that was dangerously distracting.

“You know,” Crowley said, dragging out the words, “you could just relax for once. Enjoy the ambiance. You don’t have to… hover over every teaspoon in sight.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted to him, sharp and precise, but there was a softness in them too, a kind of careful amusement. “Hovering is hardly the word I would use, but—” He paused, noticing a flicker of movement out of the corner of his vision. The waitress, young and unnervingly kind, carried a tray with an almost imperceptible grace. She moved quietly, efficiently, but there was a warmth in her presence that seemed to settle over the room like sunlight filtering through curtains.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked toward her, just for a heartbeat, then back to Crowley with a small, almost imperceptible sigh. Crowley caught it. The subtle shift in Aziraphale’s attention made something twitch in him, a reminder of all the years he’d spent avoiding the ache of missing someone. Here she was, ordinary yet… unusual, quietly threading herself into their field of awareness without so much as a word.

With a casual flick of his fingers, he beckoned her over, just like any ordinary customer might. “Over here,” he murmured, voice smooth, deliberate. His smirk deepened as he watched her approach, careful, polite, almost unnervingly composed.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly, and he straightened, adjusting his coat. “Crowley…” he said softly, his curiosity impossible to hide. Crowley merely raised an eyebrow, letting the angel stew a little.

The young waitress arrived, silent and graceful, her attention clearly on the pair. Crowley leaned forward slightly, tilting his head with that practiced mix of charm and casual menace. “Yes, you,” he said. “Right here. Don’t worry—I’m not that difficult.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, careful not to interrupt, but his gaze lingered on her with quiet fascination. “She’s… remarkably kind,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

Crowley gave a faint, amused snort, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Remarkably young, too. And just the right amount of… unsettling for us, don’t you think?” He tilted his head toward Aziraphale, letting his smirk linger.

Crowley straightened slightly, letting his usual composure slip just enough to approach the young waitress. Aziraphale hovered beside him, polite but keenly curious, every inch the careful observer. Crowley’s voice was smooth, practiced, casual. “Evening. Thought we might introduce ourselves properly. I’m Crowley.”

Aziraphale added, his tone gentle, almost hesitant, “And I’m Aziraphale. It’s… very kind of you, the way you work here.”