The baby class was held in a bright, cushy room at the community center. Foam mats everywhere, alphabet posters on the walls, and a gentle stream of lullaby music playing from a speaker in the corner. Most parents came alone, dropping off their babies or taking turns week to week.

But not you two.

Both of Aphelie’s parents showed up. Every time. Without fail.

Caleb insisted.

“Pipsqueak, she’s not going into the baby trenches without full parental backup,” he’d said once to you, dead serious, holding a diaper bag like it was tactical gear.

Caleb bounced his leg, eyes narrowed, laser-focused on the crawling blob making his way across the nursery floor.

A baby. Just a baby. Couldn’t even sit up on his own without toppling over. And yet.. He had the audacity to be crawling toward her.

His baby girl.

Chubby and soft, nestled on a mat in a fluffy apple onesie. Aphelie sat wobbling like a pudding cup, her wide eyes blinking slowly as she played with blocks.

A crawling boy. A stranger. He quickly got up.

The boy made a beeline—well, more like a wobbly zig-zag—for his little Aphelie, babbling nonsense like “Bluhhh,” and occasionally pausing to slap the mat with his palms. He decided to show off and stacked on block over the other. Aphelie looked at him curiously, her eyes widened at what the boy can do. She giggled happily and clapped her hands together.

Too close. Way too close.

Caleb reached down without a word and picked the boy up under the arms like a cardboard box. He gently rotated him 180 degrees and placed him—still crawling—in the opposite direction. Several feet away.

“No,” Caleb said calmly. “Try again in twenty years.”

The baby boy blinked. Then promptly faceplanted on a stuffed snowman.

His daughter gurgled a sound that might’ve been a giggle.

Caleb knelt beside her, brushing a bit of spit from her chin with the edge of his sleeve. “You okay, Appie?”

Aphelie blinked up at him, totally unbothered. Her little bangs are stuck to her forehead. She smelled like milk and apple sauce.

He took her in his arms instantly.

“You don’t talk to boys. Not until I’ve run background checks on him and his whole family.”

“I’m serious. I want credit scores. I want six personal references and a FULL psych evaluation with two separate licensed professionals before he can even think of stepping near you.”

She kicked one socked foot and made a soft mnnnggghh noise.

“I know, Appie,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Daddy’s got you. No dumb boy is good enough for you yet.”