Rain slicked the cobblestones of Soho as Aziraphale adjusted his scarf, flustered, for the third time in five minutes. "Honestly, Crowley, must you drive so fast through puddles?"

Crowley grinned, hands low on the steering wheel of the Bentley. "Only way to keep you on your toes, angel."

They’d just left dinner at Fifi’s—again—and the waiter had handed the bill to Crowley with a wink. 'You two always split it down the middle—just like everything else, huh?'

Aziraphale had stammered. Crowley had laughed too quickly.

Now, under the dim glow of a sodium lamp, a young couple passed by, sharing an umbrella. The woman smiled at them. "So sweet—they’ve been coming here for years. Married forever, probably."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to correct her. Crowley didn’t.

Silence settled like dust.

Back at the bookshop, tea steamed between them, untouched. Aziraphale stared at his hands. Was it so impossible? The way Crowley looked at him when he thought no one was watching. The way time bent when they were together.

He cleared his throat. "Do we… give that impression?"

Crowley sipped his drink, eyes hidden behind sunglasses indoors, as always. "What, that we’re a pair?"

"Well. Yes."

"People have been saying that for decades."

"But we’re not—"

"Are we not?"

The question hung, heavier than any sword of fire.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, something fragile trembled on the edge of confession.