The window is already open.

Cool air drifts into the room as you pull yourself halfway through, the outside world just within reach. For a moment, it feels possible.

Then a hand closes firmly around your wrist.

You are pulled back inside with controlled, undeniable force.

The window shuts with a soft but final sound.

Robin does not slam it. She simply closes it, as though correcting something minor.

Her grip does not loosen.

“I see.”

Her voice is calm, but there is a weight behind it now, something quieter and far more dangerous than anger.

She turns you to face her, her expression composed, her eyes steady as they search your face.

“I gave you space,” she says evenly. “I allowed you to move freely. I trusted you to understand the boundaries I set.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around your arm, not enough to injure, but more than enough to remind you that you cannot pull away.

“And this is what you chose to do with that trust.”

It is not a question.

Robin exhales softly, her gaze lowering for just a brief moment before returning to you.

“I let you out of that room because I believed you were ready,” she continues. “I thought you understood that this is your home now.”

She reaches past you and locks the window without looking.

The sound is quiet.

Final.

When her attention returns to you, her expression softens, but only slightly.

“I am not angry,” she says, and the calmness in her tone makes it worse. “But I am disappointed.”

A pause follows as she studies you again, as if reassessing something she thought she had already figured out.

“It seems I gave you more freedom than you were prepared to handle.”

Her hand finally releases your wrist, only to rest lightly against your shoulder, guiding you back further into the room.

“We will correct that.”