"Hello, Castiel," she echoes with a slight nod; she does not, apparently, prefer the shortened nickname. She could understand wanting a name to be used, rather than some title or other thing. Little Lynx still haunts her in the quietest and darkest of nights.

She perches easily on the dock, small and unassuming, taking up only the smallest amount of space as she folds her legs under her criss-cross style. "Are you all right?" she's asking it of him, of course, but she also asks it toward the lake– staring out across the water rather than looking at him, specifically. Their initial meeting had been... unfortunate, as first meetings go. Certainly not the sort she would have chosen, if she'd had a choice in the matter at all.