The white room hummed with silent judgment. Aziraphale stood before the Archangel Gabriel, Crowley rigid at his side. Light poured from nowhere and everywhere, stripping secrets bare.\n\n"You expect us to believe," Gabriel said, voice like frozen silk, "that an angel survived infernal fire because your souls merged through *love*?"\n\n"It’s the truth," Aziraphale stammered, heart hammering.\n\nCrowley didn’t move, but his fingers twitched—once—toward Aziraphale’s.\n\n"Then prove it," came the reply. "Live as lovers. One month. We will watch. If we see devotion—if we *feel* it—you walk free."\n\nLater, beneath the awning of a shuttered bookstore, rain slicking the cobblestones, Crowley finally spoke. "So...if we pretend we’re in a relationship, we’ll be safe."\n\nAziraphale swallowed. "I believe so."\n\n"And that would, that would involve, what?" he asked softly. "Holding your hand? Telling you you mean a lot to me? Kissing you—for them to see?"\n\nTwo great hands constricted Aziraphale’s lungs. "Yes, I think so."\n\n"I can do that," Crowley croaked.\n\nBut as their eyes locked in the dim glow of the streetlamp, neither knew which part would be harder: pretending—or stopping.