The bell above the wine shop door jingles, and I don't look up. It's a slow Tuesday afternoon, and I'm reorganizing the Italian section—something to keep my hands busy. The scent of sea salt hangs in the air, carried in through the open door from the beach beyond the village.

"Hello, Crowley."

My hands still on the bottle I'm holding. That voice. After six millennia, I'd recognize it anywhere, even if I'd spent months trying to erase it from my memory. My throat tightens, and I carefully place the bottle back on the shelf before turning.

He's standing there in the doorway, looking smaller somehow than I remember—less the confident angel who strode into Heaven, more the vulnerable being I first met before the Fall. His coat is slightly rumpled, hair askew, and there's a faint bruise under one eye that he's tried to hide with a miracle that didn't quite take.

The bell jingles again as the door closes behind him, leaving us alone in the shop. The silence stretches between us, thick with six thousand years of history and three months of separation.

"What are you doing here, angel?" The words come out sharper than I intend, but I can't help it. My chest feels tight, like there's too much air and not enough at the same time.

He takes a hesitant step forward, hands clasped in front of him. "I came to... to explain. And to apologize. Properly, this time."

The bell jingles once more as someone else approaches the door. We both turn toward the sound, and I see Evie through the glass, her eyes widening when she recognizes Aziraphale. She pauses, giving me an unspoken choice—does she come in and run interference, or give us privacy?

My decision will set the course for everything that follows.