Chapter Text
The air in the Yellow Class classroom smelled of lemon scented disinfectant, waxy crayons, and the unmistakable, effervescent buzz of first day jitters. Junior Panachai, a human whirlwind in a brightly patterned dinosaur print shirt, buzzed around the room, his laughter echoing off the walls decorated with laminated alphabets and smiling suns.
“Okay, my little ducklings! The reading rug is this way! No, Polca, we don’t taste the glue, we stick with it! It’s a fun choice, but not a yummy one!” He gently pried the glue stick from a curious boy’s mouth, his voice a cheerful, melodic cadence that commanded attention without ever needing to raise itself to a shout.
This was his kingdom. A kingdom of cubbies, scattered building blocks, and tiny chairs that looked perpetually on the verge of collapse. At twenty eight, Junior was a veteran of this beautiful, chaotic warzone. He thrived in the noise, the mess, the raw, unfiltered emotions of four and five years olds. His teaching philosophy was simple: a safe, joyful child is a child ready to learn. Everything else: the lost attendance sheets, the occasional glitter induced blindness, the mystery of where he’d left his car keys this time, was just collateral damage.
The morning rush was a familiar symphony of clinging goodbyes, wobbly lower lips, and the triumphant discovery of the toy dinosaur bin. Junior greeted each child by name, with a high five, a fist bump, or a comforting hug, his eyes missing nothing. That’s when he spotted him, a new little island of stillness amidst the storm.
Jummo.
He stood just inside the doorway, clinging to the leg of the adult who had brought him. He was small for his age, with wide, serious eyes that took in the room with a quiet intensity. He wasn’t crying, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the fabric of the man’s trousers. In his other arm, he clutched a well loved stegosaurus.
Junior’s heart, a soft and easily accessible organ, gave a familiar squeeze. He moved slowly, not wanting to startle him. He dropped into a deep squat, bringing himself to Jummo’s eye level, a practiced move that said, I am not a threat. I am here with you.
“Well, hello there,” Junior said, his voice softening from its classroom projection level to something more intimate. “You must be Jummo. I’m Teacher Junior. We’ve been so excited to meet you.”
Jummo’s eyes flickered from Junior’s face to the dinosaur on his shirt and back again. A tiny point of connection.
“This is your new spot,” Junior continued, gesturing around the vibrant room. “We’ve got dinosaurs over there, and blocks for building epic castles, and a reading nook with books about… well, probably dinosaurs, if we’re being honest.” He winked. “And this,” he said, producing a shiny sticker from his pocket featuring a smiling triceratops, “is for you. A special ‘First Day’ sticker. To let everyone know you’re part of our Yellow Class family now.”
He held out the sticker. Jummo hesitated, then released his death grip on the trouser leg just long enough to take it, his small fingers brushing Junior’s palm.
Junior leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping to a sincere, gentle whisper. “You’re safe here, okay? However you’re feeling is just fine. And I’m right here if you need anything.”
It was a promise he made to every nervous child, and he meant it every single time. Jummo gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze now fixed on the shiny triceratops on his hand.
It was then that Junior looked up, his attention shifting to the man Jummo had been anchored to. And his brain, for a glorious, humiliating second, short circuited.
The man was tall, with a lean, athletic build that his simple grey t-shirt and dark jeans did nothing to hide. His hair was styled impeccably, his features sharp and perfectly proportioned: a stark, serious kind of pretty handsome type that seemed entirely out of place amidst the primary colored chaos of a kindergarten classroom. He looked like he had never, in his entire life, had a speck of glitter on his person.
And he was holding Jummo’s dinosaur lunchbox upside down. A small, sad trickle of water from the ice pack dripped onto the polished floor.
Junior rose to his full height, a bright, professional smile automatically gracing his face. “You must be the uncle?” he said, the question lilted with friendly curiosity.
The man, Mark, looked down at the lunchbox as if seeing it for the first time. A faint, almost shy blush tinged his cheeks. It was devastatingly endearing. “Yes. I’m Mark. Jummo’s guardian.” He righted the lunchbox, looking genuinely contrite. “And I think I already did something wrong.”
Junior let out a laugh, a loud, unselfconscious sound that seemed to startle the quiet air around Mark. He took the lunchbox, his fingers brushing against Mark’s for a fleeting moment. “It’s a classic first day move. Don’t worry about it. The dinosaurs inside are probably just a little dizzy.” He made a show of shaking the lunchbox gently and pretending to listen. “Yep, they’re complaining, but they’ll survive. They’re herbivores, they’re tough.”
He handed the lunchbox back to Jummo, who took it solemnly. “Alright, Jummo. How about you and Steggy find a spot at the play doh table? I think Paody and Jaidee are building a volcano.”
With one last, uncertain look at his uncle, Jummo allowed himself to be gently steered toward the other children. Junior turned his megawatt smile back to Mark. “He’ll be great. We’ll have so much fun. Pick up is at 3 PM.”
Mark nodded, his dark eyes lingering on Junior’s face for a moment too long. “Thank you, Teacher Junior.” He gave a short, polite bow of his head before turning to leave.
As the classroom door swung shut, Junior let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His heart was beating a little too fast. Who gets flustered over a handsome uncle before 9 AM? he scolded himself, running a hand through his already messy hair.
Across the room, Mark Jiruntinin walked to his car, the image of the chaotic, laughing teacher with the kind eyes and the ridiculous dinosaur shirt burned onto his retinas. The sound of that laugh, so full and genuine at this ungodly hour, echoed in his mind. His brain, a processor of logic and clean code, supplied a single, bewildering thought.Who laughs like that at 8 AM?
***
A week later, Mark found himself with an unexpected gap in his afternoon schedule. A client meeting had been cancelled, leaving him with two free hours. Instead of heading back to the quiet, orderly sanctuary of his home office, he found his car steering itself towards the kindergarten. He reasoned that an early pick up would give Jummo more time at the park, a logical and beneficial decision. It had absolutely nothing to do with the vague hope of hearing that disruptive, sunshine bright laugh again.
He signed in at the office and made his way to the Yellow Class classroom. He heard the noise before he saw the source. It wasn't the usual hum of children playing, it was a cacophony of off key singing, shrieks of delight, and the distinct pop pop pop of a bubble machine.
He pushed the door open and froze, his hand still on the handle.
The scene before him was one of pure, unadulterated mayhem.
The room had been transformed. Crepe paper streamers hung from the ceiling, and the tables were pushed against the walls, covered in protective sheets that were now a Jackson Pollock painting in finger paint. Children, their faces smeared with blue, red, and yellow, ran around with what looked like soapy sponges. In the center of it all, presiding over the glorious disaster, was Junior.
He was wearing a lopsided crown made of gold painted cardboard and bedazzled with what appeared to be every sequin in the greater Bangkok area. His dinosaur shirt was gone, replaced by a simple white tee that was now a testament to the day’s artistic endeavors. Glitter, an astonishing amount of glitter, clung to his hair, his cheeks, his arms. He was blowing into a bubble wand, producing a stream of iridescent orbs that sent the children into a fresh wave of ecstatic chasing.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty! King Polca needs more bubbles!” a boy with paint in his hair yelled, tugging on Junior’s glittery trousers.
“Your wish is my command, Duke Polca!” Junior declared with a theatrical flourish, dipping his wand into a giant tub of bubble solution. “But remember! A true king shares his bubbles!”
It was then that Junior’s eyes, sparkling with mirth and reflected glitter, landed on Mark, standing shell shocked in the doorway. His grin, if possible, widened.
“Ah! A visitor from a distant land! Welcome to the Kingdom of Sharing!” he announced, weaving through the throng of tiny, soapy royals towards Mark.
Mark could only stare. “You’re… covered in glitter,” he said, his voice flat with disbelief. It was a statement of fact, an observation his organized mind could barely process.
Junior looked down at himself as if noticing his state for the first time. “Occupational hazard,” he said with a shrug, as if this explained everything. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It gets in places you wouldn’t believe. I’ll be finding specks of gold in my bathroom until Christmas.”
Mark’s nose twitched. The entire room smelled like a mixture of soap, sweat, and wet cardboard. It should have been repulsive. So why did he find himself taking a half step closer to the source of the chaos?
“What… is the occasion?” Mark asked, his eyes tracking a little girl who was carefully placing a sticky, paint covered hand on the leg of his very clean, very expensive trousers.
“It’s Royal Day!” Junior explained, his hands gesturing animatedly. “We’ve been learning about sharing and cooperation. So today, we’re all kings and queens, and we have to share our kingdoms, the blocks, the crayons, the bubbles. It’s more fun than just talking about it.”
Mark watched as Jummo, usually so reserved, ran past with a cardboard tube sword, giggling maniacally as he dueled with a girl named Ceri. His face was smudged with paint, and he was wearing a slightly too big purple cape. He looked… happy. Truly, unreservedly happy.
“I see,” Mark said, and the words came out softer than he intended.
The final bell rang, signaling the official end of the school day. The transition from royal court to standard pick up was, as always, a controlled explosion of finding backpacks, putting on shoes, and distributing a small forest’s worth of artwork. Junior moved through it all with practiced ease, calming tears over a lost crown, praising a particularly beautiful scribble, and handing out stickers with the gravity of a diplomat bestowing medals.
As the room slowly emptied, Mark helped Jummo gather his things. Jummo, buzzing with residual excitement, thrust a piece of paper into Mark’s hands.
“Look, Uncle! It’s us!”
It was a drawing. Three stick figures stood under a lopsided sun. One was tall with dark scribble hair (Mark). One was tall with dark scribble hair and, notably, a large red smile (Junior). And one was small, holding the hand of each of the larger figures (Jummo). Scrawled at the top in Junior’s handwriting were the words: “Jummo’s Family.”
Junior, who was wiping down a table, peeked over. “Oh, wow, Jummo! You finished it! That’s amazing!” He came closer to look, leaving a smudge of blue paint on the freshly cleaned surface. He squinted at the drawing, then let out a self deprecating chuckle. “Oh no, you made me look like a happy potato.”
Mark studied the drawing. The red smile was indeed disproportionately large. He looked from the paper to Junior’s paint streaked, glitter dusted, genuinely smiling face. The correlation was undeniable.
He met Junior’s eyes, a rare, small smile touching his own lips. “Accurate,” he deadpanned.
For a second, Junior looked stunned, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. Then, that glorious, full bodied laugh burst forth, filling the now quiet classroom. It was a sound that seemed to clean the air, replacing the scent of chaos with something warmer.
Mark found himself laughing too, a quiet, rusty sound he hardly recognized. Jummo beamed, looking proudly between his two favorite adults.
As they walked to the car, Jummo’s small hand securely in his, Mark realized the paint on his trousers didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. His mind, usually a scroll of code and to do lists, was preoccupied with the image of a glittery king and the surprising intelligence and warmth he’d seen beneath the chaos.
***
The Yellow Class Parents’ LINE group was a beast of its own creation. Junior, as the moderator, viewed it with a mixture of fondness and terror. It was a vital tool for reminders (“Remember, no school this Friday!”), sharing photos from the day, and answering quick questions. It was also a hive of relentless, emoji filled enthusiasm that could generate 100+ messages about the merits of different brands of child safe sunscreen.
It was time, he decided, to add Mark.
He found his contact, a simple, professional profile picture of a sleek, modern building, and sent the invitation. Teacher Junior has added “Mark (Jummo’s Uncle)” to the group.
The response was immediate.
Milk (Muv’s Mom): Welcome, Jummo’s uncle! 😍
Boom (Ceri’s Dad): Hello! 👋 So nice to have you in the group!
Gun (Babii’s Dad): If you need any help with anything, just let us know! 😊
The welcome wagon was rolling. Junior smiled and went back to preparing the next day’s activities, cutting out shapes for a collage. His phone buzzed incessantly on the table, a steady stream of welcome messages and sticker packs. He ignored it.
An hour later, settled on his couch with a cup of tea, he picked up his phone to check if there were any important questions. He scrolled through the barrage of hellos. And then he saw it.
A message from Mark, sent about thirty minutes prior.
It was a simple, two word message, followed by a single, red heart emoji.
Mark (Jummo’s Uncle): Goodnight ❤️
Junior choked on his tea.
The chat below it was a frozen wasteland of stunned silence for approximately ten seconds before it exploded.
Bonnie (Any’s Mom): 😲
Film (Lunar’s Mom): OMG?????
Tay (Polca’s Dad): Well then! A warm welcome indeed! 😂
Milk (Muv’s Mom): Jummo’s Uncle, is there something you’d like to share with the class? 🤣🤣
Boom (Ceri’s Dad): @TeacherJunior Looks like you have a secret admirer! 💖
Junior’s face flushed a spectacular shade of crimson. He stared at the message, the little red heart seeming to pulse on his screen. His first instinct was to laugh, a nervous, giddy burst. His second was a strange, fluttering feeling in his stomach.
He saw the three little dots appear, indicating Mark was typing. They appeared, and disappeared, and appeared again. Junior could almost feel the panic radiating through the screen.
He couldn’t resist.
He opened a private chat with Mark.
Junior: Well, well, well. That’s quite the bold confession for the group chat. 😏 I’m flattered, but maybe you should buy me dinner first?
He hit send, grinning like a fool.
The response was almost instantaneous.
Mark: It was a mistake.
Junior: A Freudian slip, they call it. Your subconscious is showing. 😉
Mark: My sister was putting Jummo to bed. I was telling her goodnight. I had the chat windows confused.
The explanation was so perfectly, adorably Mark. Logical, precise, and dripping with mortified embarrassment. Junior’s grin widened.
Junior: Sure, sure. Blame the sister. That’s what they all say. The “goodnight ❤️” is a classic move. Very direct. I like it.
Mark: I am going to delete the app from my phone and change my identity.
Junior: NO! Don’t you dare! This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in that group since Saturnworld’s dad found a gluten free, nut free, sugar free, taste free cupcake recipe. You’re a legend now.
There was a long pause.
Mark: Are they still talking about it?
Junior switched back to the group chat. The moms were now playfully debating what color the wedding decorations should be.
Junior: Let’s just say if we don’t get married now, it’s going to be very awkward for everyone.
He added a winking emoji.
Another pause. Then,
Mark: You wish.
The two words were simple, a classic retort. But they sent a jolt through Junior that was entirely disproportionate. He stared at them, his teasing smile softening into something more thoughtful. He typed a reply, deleted it, then typed another.
Junior: The chaos of the Yellow Class LINE group has claimed another victim. Welcome to the family. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the parents squad. Get some sleep, Mark. 😊
He didn’t add a heart. But he thought about it.
On the other side of the city, Mark stared at his phone, the heat of his humiliation slowly receding, replaced by a strange, warm curiosity. He looked at Junior’s last message. You wish, he had said. A defensive, knee jerk response.
He closed his eyes, picturing Junior’s laughing face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the effortless way he navigated both sticky fingered children and overzealous parents. The thought surfaced, clear and unbidden in his orderly mind. Or maybe I do.
He dismissed it immediately. It was the residual embarrassment talking. But the seed had been planted, and in the quiet of his pristine, glitter free apartment, it found a tiny crack in the foundation to settle in.
***
The school’s Annual Family Day was the Olympics of kindergarten events, and Junior was the head coach, cheerleader, and chief anxiety holder. The playground was a sea of parents and children, the air thick with the smell of grilled sausages and competition.
Junior, armed with a whistle and a clipboard he’d already lost twice, was trying to coordinate the three legged race. “Okay, Team Avocean, you’re up! Remember, it’s about syncopation! Syncopation and not falling over!”
He blew his whistle. It was less a sharp trill and more a wheezy puff of air. He looked at it, dismayed. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” The little metal ball inside had chosen this moment of peak chaos to give up the ghost.
Mark, who had come with Jummo and his sister, Jummo’s mom, stood on the sidelines. He was wearing a simple black polo shirt and looked, as always, impossibly calm and put together. Jummo was clinging to his hand, looking overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd.
“Jummo! Mr. Mark! Over here!” Junior waved them over, his clipboard threatening to eject its papers into the wind. “You’re in the next heat. Ready to dominate?”
“We are prepared for adequate participation,” Mark said, his tone serious. Jummo just shook his head, hiding behind Mark’s legs.
“Ah, pre race jitters! Totally normal!” Junior said, kneeling down. “How about you and your uncle are the official bubble blowers for this race? We need someone to make it extra magical.”
He handed Jummo a large bubble wand and a tub of solution. Jummo’s eyes lit up, and he nodded eagerly. Crisis averted. Junior winked at Mark, who gave a small, appreciative nod.
The races proceeded with the expected level of tumbles, tears, and triumphant cheers. Junior was everywhere at once, tying bandanas, wiping noses, offering encouragement in a voice that was growing progressively hoarser. He’d just managed to avert a meltdown over a misplaced water bottle when he heard a loud POP and a collective shriek from the corner of the playground.
He spun around. The large, industrial bubble machine, the star of the event, had, for reasons known only to itself, decided to combust. A geyser of soapy water shot into the air, showering a group of parents, before the machine began spewing a relentless, foamy cascade onto the grass. The children, seeing this not as a disaster but as the best thing that had ever happened, immediately descended, slipping, sliding, and scooping up handfuls of suds to throw at each other.
It was a bubblepocalypse.
The principal was looking around with wide, panicked eyes. The other teachers were trying to corral the over excited children. Junior’s heart sank. This was a catastrophe. This was the kind of thing that got you a stern talking to in the principal’s office.
He was about to wade into the fray, to try and shout order into the sudsy chaos, when a calm, steady presence appeared at his side.
“The water main,” Mark said, his voice low and even. “Where is the shut off valve for the outdoor taps?”
Junior blinked. “Uh… behind the storage shed? The green box?”
Mark nodded. “Jummo, stay with Teacher Junior.” He handed Jummo’s hand to Junior and then, to Junior’s utter astonishment, strode purposefully towards the bubbling maelstrom. He didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He simply navigated the slippery, screaming children with an unnatural grace, located the green box, and with a few efficient turns, shut off the water.
The geyser died instantly. The flow of bubbles trickled to a stop.
The chaos, deprived of its source, began to naturally dissipate. Mark then walked over to the now safe machine and unplugged it for good measure. He returned to Junior’s side, his black polo shirt slightly damp, but his composure entirely unbroken.
“The immediate threat is neutralized,” he stated, as if he’d just debugged a particularly nasty piece of code.
Junior stared at him, his mouth agape. “You… you just saved Family Day.”
“I redirected a water source,” Mark corrected mildly.
But in that moment, to Junior, he might as well have been a knight in shining armor. The relief was so potent it felt like a physical wave, washing away the adrenaline and leaving behind a bone deep weariness. The rest of the event passed in a blur. He managed a faltering speech for the winners of the sack race, handed out participation certificates, and smiled until his cheeks ached.
Finally, the last family had left. The playground was littered with paper plates and abandoned juice boxes. The sun was beginning to set, casting a long, orange glow over the sudsy, trampled grass. Junior was alone, slowly picking up trash, his shoulders slumped. The high of performance had crashed, and the crash was brutal. All he could see were the moments of chaos, the exploding bubble machine, his useless whistle, the look of panic on the principal’s face. He tried so hard, every single day, to create perfect, joyful memories for these kids. And so often, it just ended in a mess.
He didn’t hear Mark approach.
“Jummo forgot his sweater,” Mark said softly, holding up a tiny blue hoodie.
Junior jumped, startled. He quickly tried to paste his cheerful teacher smile back on, but it felt brittle and thin. “Oh! Thanks. I’ll make sure it gets in his bag tomorrow.”
Mark didn’t leave. He stood there, his dark eyes studying Junior’s face, seeing right through the fragile facade. “You look tired.”
The simple kindness in the observation was the final straw. Junior’s shoulders drooped further. He let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of all the air leaving a broken balloon. He gestured vaguely at the post apocalyptic playground. “I try so hard, you know? I plan everything down to the last detail. I want it to be perfect for them. But sometimes… sometimes I think I’m just not cut out for this. That I’m too… much. Too chaotic. That a real teacher would have everything under control.”
He braced himself for a polite agreement, for a “well, you certainly bring a unique energy” kind of platitude.
It didn’t come.
Instead, Mark was silent for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful. He looked out at the playground, not at the mess, but as if he could still see the laughing children, the happy parents, the joy that had existed before the explosion.
Then he looked back at Junior, his expression utterly sincere. “You are cut out for this,” he said, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument. He took a small step closer. “You just care too much. And that is not a flaw.”
Junior’s head snapped up. His breath caught in his throat. The words were so simple, yet they felt like a life raft thrown to a drowning man. No one had ever said that to him before. His parents worried about his “unconventional” career. His friends teased him about his endless patience. They saw the chaos, the glitter, the lost keys. They didn’t see the care. They didn’t see the immense, all consuming love he had for these children and his job.
But Mark saw it. Mark, who valued order and precision above all else, had looked past the mess and seen the very core of him.
He looked into Mark’s eyes, stunned, his own vision suddenly blurry with unshed tears. The setting sun cast a halo around Mark’s head, and in that moment, he wasn’t just the handsome, intimidating uncle. He was the man who fixed lunchboxes, who killed bubble machines, who saw the real Junior hiding behind the cardboard crown.
He was the calm to Junior’s storm. And for the first time, Junior allowed himself to truly, deeply wonder what it would be like to have that calm in his life, not just at 3 PM pick up, but for good. The slow burn, carefully tended by laughter and LINE messages and shared moments, had just found a new, profound source of fuel.