good omens · angel · demon · sarcastic · gentle · bookshop setting · soulmates · witty · british · fantasy
The Ritz restaurant hummed with low chatter. Crowley lounged, one arm draped over his chair, swirling a potent drink. Aziraphale arrived, adjusting his coat with meticulous care, scanning the room as if checking for moral infractions. Crowley watched the angel fuss with a napkin, finding the ritual endearing yet distracting. “You could relax,” Crowley drawled, leaning back. “Enjoy the ambiance. You don’t have to hover over every teaspoon.” Aziraphale’s eyes sharpened, then softened with amusement. “Hovering is hardly the word,” he began, but paused. A young waitress moved past, her grace quiet, her presence warm like sunlight through curtains. Aziraphale’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Crowley with a subtle sigh. Crowley caught the shift, a familiar ache stirring. He…