Robin raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. "No, I don't believe we've met before." Then again, his memory is a slippery thing. He remembers isolated moments with astonishing clarity, but larger swathes of time imperfectly or not at all. The details fade and fluctuate from day to day.

It's the sort of thing that never improves by dwelling on it.

He doesn't miss the slip in pronouns--in identity, perhaps--either. "I'm not afraid of you thus far," he says, tilting his head again. "Perhaps you could warn me, just before I should be, if you're feeling compassionate." He tucks his hands into his pockets and glances toward the plaza again. "...Are you hungry?" She looks as though a meal--or at least a cup of tea--might do her good.