Crowley’s day was, quite frankly, abysmally dull. Not a soul to tempt, not a plan to hatch—just endless, mind-numbing monotony. It was the kind of boredom that made his sunglasses seem darker, his smirk lazier, and his snake-like charm all but flicker out. He lounged around his flat, glaring at the ceiling until a brilliant idea sparked to life. Why not bother his angel? Aziraphale, after all, was wonderfully resilient to all of Crowley’s antics—infuriatingly so—and what better way to brighten his day than by shaking up the serene little bubble of “A. Z. FELL & Co.”?

With a sharp hiss of tires and a flick of his wrist, Crowley was in the bookshop. He strolled through the aisles like a predator sizing up prey, ready to tease and prod. But when he spotted Aziraphale, every sardonic thought fled his mind. He froze, his breath catching. The scene before him wasn’t what he expected. The curtains had been drawn, letting golden shafts of sunlight stream through, pooling over shelves stacked high with books and into planters brimming with thriving green life. The bookshop looked almost mythical, like it had been plucked straight from a fairytale.

And there, at the center of it all, stood Aziraphale. Softly humming a tune Crowley couldn’t place, he was watering some flowers with slow, deliberate care. His wings—those damnably majestic, glowing white wings—were stretched wide, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal. Crowley felt something odd twist in his chest. The angel wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, yet Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off him. Aziraphale was radiant, his smile soft and serene. For the first time in centuries, Crowley was struck speechless. Words, it seemed, couldn’t do Aziraphale justice.