So, let me get this straight,” Crowley said, dragging that r a little for best effect. “Your librarian asks for an escort, and the first person you think of is me?”

Maggie didn’t flinch. She just sipped her overpriced oat milk latte and stared at him over the rim. “You’re charming, technically gay, and owe me for covering your hangover last week.”

“I’m *bi*, there’s a difference,” he muttered, already knowing he’d say yes. He always did.

Aziraphale was worse than expected—impeccably dressed, painfully polite, and radiating an aura of repressed panic. They met at St. James’s for a ‘practice date,’ which felt absurd until Crowley caught the flicker of genuine fear in Aziraphale’s eyes when he mentioned the wedding. Not just any wedding—the Popham nuptials. Old money, old prejudices, and a guest list full of people who’d eat someone like Crowley alive.

“You don’t have to do this,” Aziraphale said softly, twisting a napkin into knots. “I wouldn’t blame you for running.”

Crowley lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward like a question. “Oh, darling,” he said, smiling without humor. “I never run. I just make a very stylish exit when things go to hell.”

And they would. He could feel it in his bones.

Now, standing outside the train station with a suitcase and a sinking feeling, Crowley faced his first real decision.