As we began passing dishes, the initial awkwardness gradually gave way to the familiar rhythms of a family dinner. My mother, ever the English teacher, couldn’t resist asking Rion about the historical and literary aspects of his existence.
“So the labyrinth—is that a cultural inclination or a personal preference?” she asked as she refilled his water glass for the third time.
“Both, I suppose,” Rion answered thoughtfully. “There’s something in my nature that’s drawn to complex structures, but I’ve also developed it into a skill. My architectural work tends towards the intricate.”
“Clara mentioned you’re quite accomplished,” my father said. “What sort of buildings do you design?”
Rion relaxed visibly at the shift to professional territory. “Primarily residential and small commercial properties. I specialize in sustainable designs that work with the natural landscape rather than imposing upon it.”
“That’s fascinating,” my mother said, and I could tell her interest was genuine. “Do you have photos?”
“On my phone, yes.” Rion glanced at me, as if seeking permission.
“Show them your lake house project,” I encouraged, grateful for this opening.
Rion pulled out his phone and brought up images of one of his recent designs—a stunning house built into a hillsideoverlooking a lake, its spaces flowing naturally from one to another in a subtle labyrinthine pattern that never felt confusing or disorienting.
My parents leaned in, genuinely impressed, and the conversation flowed into safer waters—architecture, design, my father’s woodworking, my mother’s garden. By the time we moved to dessert—apple pie and chocolate cake—the atmosphere had shifted from tense to merely slightly awkward.
“So,” my mother said as she cut generous slices of both desserts for Rion, “how did you two meet? Clara’s been rather vague about the details.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “It’s kind of a funny story, actually.”
“I’d like to hear it,” my father said, settling back in his chair with his coffee cup.
Rion glanced at me, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You tell it. You’re the storyteller.”
I launched into the tale of my ladder emergency and misdirected text, watching as my parents’ expressions shifted from polite interest to genuine entertainment. By the time I reached the coffee shop meeting, my mother was leaning forward, completely engaged.
“You didn’t know?” she asked, incredulous. “You had no idea he wasn’t human when you agreed to meet him?”
“Not a clue,” I admitted. “I was expecting Mark from next door.”
“The one with the loud motorcycle and the protein powder obsession?” my father clarified.
“That’s the one.”
My mother turned to Rion. “And you just… showed up? Knowing she wasn’t expecting a minotaur?”
Rion looked slightly abashed. “In my defense, I tried to warn her. But Clara can be… persistent.”
“That’s one word for it,” my father muttered, but his eyes were twinkling.
“What happened when you saw him?” my mother asked, turning back to me.
I reached for Rion’s hand under the table. “I was surprised, obviously. But mostly I was just… fascinated. Here was this incredible being who’d been helping me all week, who clearly cared about doing things properly, who went out of his way to meet me even though it put him at risk of exposure.”
“Risk?” My father’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, risk?”
I hesitated, glancing at Rion, who gave a small nod of permission.
“Not everyone is accepting of non-human beings,” I explained carefully. “Rion has faced discrimination. Hostility, even.”
“That’s ridiculous,” my father said immediately, his indignation clear. “You can’t judge a person by their appearance.”
“I wish everyone felt that way,” Rion said quietly. “But the reality is more complicated.”
I took a deep breath and told them about Mrs. Wilson’s request that Rion stay “behind the scenes,” about the pressure to keep our relationship private, about Rion’s past experiences with public prejudice.
