He trusts Crowley, for what it's worth. It doesn't mean thinking there can't be mistakes, missteps. No, he trusts him to read cues and accept requests, a true form of trust that considers the other person as not being perfect, but as trying.

And it's with that trust, so carefully cultivated for so very long, that Aziraphale lays back on the bed and closes his eyes, reveling on the feeling of Crowley's lips on his throat, their bodies pressed together, their souls intertwined.

Oh, there are romances and poetry and songs that come to mind. The eagerness that starts to win over his anxiety and he feels it crawling to the top.

A hand brushes up to the back of Crowley's head. The angel shifts carefully under him, holding onto, sharing more of his true emotions with him. Not all, not yet, but certainly more honesty than he's ever afforded before.