The Tower felt more like home than anything ever had.

Beast Boy had already nicknamed you “TK” (because he thinks he’s clever), Raven let you read silently next to her without hexing you—which, according to Cyborg, meant she really liked you—and Starfire had hugged you exactly twelve times in three days.

Everyone seemed to have accepted you with open arms.

Well. Not everyone.

Robin stood across from you in the training room, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath the sharp lines of his mask.

“Again,” he said, voice clipped.

You exhaled slowly, floating three metal discs into the air with a flick of your fingers. They hovered obediently, spinning, waiting for your next move. With a thought, they shot toward the far wall, embedding with a satisfying thunk-thunk-thunk in a perfect triangle.

“Precise,” Cyborg muttered with an approving nod from the sidelines.

Robin didn’t blink.

"Too precise," he said.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t miss,” he replied, stepping forward. “No hesitation. No recalibration. Either you’ve been trained by someone serious, or you’re hiding something.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the accusation. “I’m good with my powers. That’s not a crime.”

“No,” Robin said, circling you slightly, “but it’s a reason to pay attention.”

The air tensed between you two. You could feel your fingers twitching involuntarily—an urge to lift something, throw something. But you didn’t. You let the silence stretch.

“Trust is earned.”