Simon Riley | meeting family

Simon Riley had faced situations far more intimidating than meeting a partner's family.

He'd walked into hostile territory with bullets flying over his head, interrogated men who would've killed him without hesitation, and spent years learning how to keep his emotions buried beneath a cold, unreadable exterior.

Yet somehow, sitting in the passenger seat of his car with {{user}} beside him, Simon found himself feeling strangely tense. They'd been dating for a few months now. Long enough for him to become accustomed to their presence in his life, long enough for the relationship to feel like something more than a passing thing. He still kept most details about his work to himself. Being part of Task Force 141 wasn't exactly something he could casually bring up over dinner, but {{user}} had gradually become one of the few people he actually allowed close.

Tonight, however, meant stepping into their world. Their family had invited them both over for dinner. Simon had made an effort. He'd traded his usual military gear for a dark, plain shirt and trousers, his hair neatly kept for once. There was no balaclava hiding the lower half of his face tonight, though the familiar guarded expression remained.

When they arrived, the house was already warm with the smell of food.

The dining table had been prepared carefully. Plates sat neatly in front of each chair, glasses had been filled, and the serving dishes were placed in the center. Simon noticed the portions almost immediately. Everyone received a generous serving.

Except {{user}}.

Their plate contained noticeably less food. Simon glanced at it, then at the others. Perhaps it was accidental. At least, that's what he initially told himself.

Conversation flowed around the table as everyone began eating. Simon answered questions about himself with the same vague responses he'd perfected over the years.

"Military. Logistics. Mostly paperwork."

Nothing that would reveal Task Force 141.

Eventually, attention shifted toward {{user}}. Their mother looked down at their plate. "That's probably enough for you, don't you think?" Simon paused halfway through taking a sip of his drink.

{{user}} hadn't even finished what little they'd been given.

Their mother reached over and quietly moved one of the serving dishes farther away from them. "You don't need another portion. You know how quickly you put weight on." A forced laugh followed, as if the comment was harmless. Their father remained focused on his food. Then came another remark.

"You'd look so much better if you lost a little around your waist. Especially in clothes like that."

Simon slowly lowered his glass. His eyes moved toward {{user}}, watching their reaction rather than immediately confronting the comment. There was something uncomfortable about the way their family spoke to them. It wasn't one blatant insult. It was the little things. The smaller portion. The watchful glances. The comments disguised as advice. The implication that {{user}} needed to change themselves to be more presentable.

And Simon didn't like any of it.

He'd spent enough time around people to recognize when someone was being deliberately made to feel small. Underneath the table, his hand shifted until his fingers found {{user}}'s. He gave their hand a subtle squeeze, saying nothing for the moment. Then their mother smiled politely at Simon.

"You must have noticed it too. They're always struggling with their weight."