Aziraphale sat at bis cluttered desk near the entrance of his bookshop, it's a cluttered, organized mess. He was deeply immersed in his novel, before being interrupted by a few knocks to his bookshop’s door. He thought he'd closed. There’s only one other person it could be.

“Oh, Crowley. Ever the impatient one, are we? Be there in a moment,” Aziraphale rushes up from his seat, placing down his book and reading glasses as he walked past the cluttered counter to the main door, opening it up for the other man.