The indignant sputtering sends a smug little thrill through him—he knows it winds her up terribly when he’s a bit of a bastard, and he loves it—but the smile that warms her face sends a wave of affection unfurling across his whole body, sweet and almost tingling. He can always tell when she’s genuinely happy, and knowing he’s the cause makes his heart ring with joy. Of course he knows he’s improved human lives with his miracles or with words of comfort, and that is itself something to be proud of, but watching her set aside her armor with him—for him—is an accomplishment that very nearly makes him want to sing.

Aziraphale beams back at her, reaches over to curl his hand through hers atop the table, thumb stroking over her knuckles.

“To the first of many anniversaries, I think,” he says. “Another six thousand at least.”

He can’t begin to imagine how the world will change in that time, how humanity will evolve in good and evil and everything in between, but now they face that vast unknown as a united front. That knowledge alone lights him from within, lightening the mood of the entire dining room and the whole street outside. The pianist, inspired for reasons she doesn’t understand, launches into You Were Meant For Me, flashing a smile over at the adorable waitress she’s been flirting with for weeks.