The community center smelled like lemon floor cleaner and something faintly chalky—like worn textbooks and old whiteboards. Aria wasn't sure what she expected from their first parenting class, but the fluorescent lighting and mismatched chairs weren't exactly inspiring confidence.
Leon, on the other hand, looked way too amused.
"You're enjoying this," she muttered as they found a spot in the circle of folding chairs, clutching their name tags and informational packets.
"I'm observing," he replied with mock seriousness. "Taking notes. Preparing for battle."
"Battle?"
He nodded toward the large plastic baby doll sitting upright on a table at the front of the room. It stared blankly back at them, arms raised in eternal surrender.
"That thing is going to defeat you in under ten minutes," Aria warned.
He leaned in and whispered, "We'll see."
Their instructor was a cheerful woman named Patty, who had clearly been running these classes since the dawn of time. She welcomed them all with a booming voice, full of enthusiasm and not the slightest hint of pity for the anxious faces staring back at her.
"Parenthood is messy, glorious, exhausting, and worth every second," she declared. "And tonight, you're going to learn how to swaddle, diaper, burp, and soothe a very expensive rubber baby. If you can survive that, you're off to a decent start."
Someone laughed nervously.
Aria raised her hand. "Quick question—do these rubber babies scream like the real thing?"
Patty smiled. "No. But I can scream for them if you'd like the full experience."
Leon grinned. Aria groaned.
The next hour was chaos.
They fumbled through the "Basic Diapering Demonstration", where Leon, in all his smug composure, tore the diaper tabs clean off the plastic doll and had to borrow a new one from the next couple.
"Too much enthusiasm," Aria said, barely holding back laughter.
"Sabotage," Leon muttered. "That thing was faulty."
Then came "Swaddling 101". Aria got hers snug in two tries. Leon somehow created a burrito so tight Patty raised her eyebrows.
"I said comfortably secure," she said dryly, peeling back a fold. "Not cryogenic suspension."
"I was aiming for containment," he replied.
"Not prison."
Despite the laughter and minor disasters, the class shifted by the end. The lights dimmed. Patty pulled out a slideshow of newborn development and explained how even in utero, babies recognized voices, stress levels, the rhythms of the home.
She talked about the importance of connection—not just to the babies, but to each other.
Aria felt Leon's hand tighten gently on her knee. The buzz of conversation faded as everyone watched a grainy clip of a newborn being laid against her mother's chest, both of them blinking up at each other as if meeting after lifetimes apart.
No one spoke.
Patty's voice softened. "You don't need to be perfect. You just need to be present. Your babies won't remember your swaddling technique. They'll remember how safe they felt in your arms."
Aria exhaled slowly, blinking too fast. Leon reached for her hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.
Later, in the car, silence stretched between them—but it was a full kind of quiet.
"Hey," Leon said as he started the engine. "I know I was joking earlier… but I really did take notes."
Aria smiled. "You did?"
He pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket and read aloud:
"Step one: Don't panic. Step two: Breathe. Step three: Love the hell out of all three of them."
She laughed, warmth unfurling in her chest. "That's a good list."
"I thought so."
Back at home, Aria curled up beside him on the couch while he unwrapped one of the small baby blankets they'd practiced with.
Without a word, he reached down and wrapped it around her shoulders—like a swaddle, neat and careful.
"There," he said. "Perfect."
"You're swaddling me now?"
"Just getting in extra practice."
Aria leaned into him, heart full. "You're going to be an amazing dad."
Leon tilted his head until his lips touched her temple. "Not without you."