It's not quite true that angels always feel love. They can, but usually they have to be looking for it first, the same as a person not necessarily being conscious of a particular breeze.

The rush of love that flows over Crowley in that moment, however, is unmissable: deep and vast, warm and rich, layered and textured and decadent.

He doesn't have to wonder, and merely turns to Aziraphale with a grin. "Really?" he calls out over the stacatto of rapidly increasing raindrops. "Me not having enough sense to come in out of the rain, that's what does it for you?"