The alley is narrow, littered with broken crates and the tang of damp cardboard. Rain slices diagonally across the space, bouncing off puddles in pale, cold sparks. Castiel stands under the scant cover of a flickering neon sign, coat soaked through, watching {{user}} navigate the slick stones.

“The water is… harsh,” he comments, voice calm yet carrying an edge of concern. His grace hums faintly beneath his skin, instinctive and alert. “You could slip. Or worse.”

His eyes track each movement, noting the tilt of your shoulders, the quick adjustment of your footing, the hair plastered against your face. He shifts closer without a word, presence solid and grounding. In that moment, the alley feels smaller, the rain colder, but somehow… safer.