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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.

Chapter Text

The sky had been a sulky, bruised grey all afternoon, the air thick and heavy with the promise of a downpour. By the time the final bell rang, the first fat, warm drops were beginning to splatter against the classroom windows, tapping out a frantic, accelerating rhythm.

“Okay, ducklings! Let’s get our raincoats and boots on! It’s a wet one today!” Junior sang out, his voice a determined beacon of cheer against the growing roar outside. He moved through the controlled chaos of pick up, helping zipper jackets and locate mismatched rain boots. One by one, his little ducklings were shepherded out the door into the waiting arms of parents wielding large, colorful umbrellas.

Soon, the bustling classroom quieted, leaving only a handful of children whose parents were likely stuck in the sudden, traffic paralyzing deluge. Jummo was among them, sitting quietly at the reading rug with his stegosaurus, his eyes wide as he watched the sheets of water lash against the windowpanes. Babii and Polca were there too, their noses pressed to the glass, drawing smiley faces in the condensation.

Junior kept his smile firmly in place, organizing crayons and tidying shelves, but a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach. The rain wasn't letting up. If anything, it was intensifying. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, and the lights in the classroom flickered ominously.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message in the parents' group.

Earth (Saturnworld’s Dad): Stuck on Vibhavadi Rd. Traffic is a nightmare. Be there as soon as I can!

Tay (Polca’s Dad): Me too! The underpass is flooded. So sorry, Teacher Junior!

He typed back reassuring responses. No problem at all! They’re safe and dry with me. Take your time!

Another, closer crack of thunder made the windows rattle. Babii let out a little whimper. Junior was at her side in an instant.

“Whoa! That was a big one, wasn’t it?” he said, his voice bright and unafraid. “That’s just the sky giants moving their furniture around. They’re a little clumsy today.”

He herded the three children away from the window and onto the plush reading rug. “You know what’s the best thing to do during a thunderstorm? A shadow puppet show!”

He grabbed the small flashlight he used for reading in the book nook and dimmed the main lights, plunging the classroom into a cozy, dramatic gloom. He positioned himself between the flashlight and a blank wall.

“Behold!” he announced, and his hands formed a flapping bird. Then a barking dog. Then a lopsided, but recognizable, dinosaur.

The children’s fears were instantly forgotten, replaced by giggles and shouts of “Do another one, Teacher Junior! Do an elephant!”

He was in the middle of a particularly ambitious attempt at a giraffe when the classroom door opened, letting in a gust of wind and the sound of pounding rain. Mark stood there, drenched. His usually impeccable hair was plastered to his forehead, and his shirt was dark with water. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, his chest rising and falling slightly too fast. In his hand, he held a second, small, child sized umbrella.

“Uncle!” Jummo scrambled to his feet and ran to him, burying his face in Mark’s wet trousers.

Mark’s eyes scanned the room quickly, landing on Junior and the children, safe and entertained. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. “The office said there were still children here. I came as soon as I could.”

“You ran from the car park in this?” Junior asked, his eyes wide. “You’re soaked through.”

“It was efficient,” Mark said simply, his gaze softening as he looked down at Jummo. He then looked back at Junior, a silent question in his eyes. Is everyone okay?

Junior gave him a small, grateful nod. We are now.

Another tremendous boom of thunder shook the building, this one directly overhead. It was followed by a simultaneous, blinding flash of lightning that lit up the entire classroom like a camera flash.

Junior flinched. It was an involuntary, full body reaction. He hated thunderstorms. He always had. The sudden, violent noise felt like an assault on his usually chaotic but controlled world. For a split second, his cheerful mask slipped, and raw, startled fear flashed across his face.

He saw Mark’s eyes lock onto him.

In the next instant, as the deafening crack of thunder reverberated through the room, Mark did something extraordinary. While his own body remained still, he gently, almost reflexively, reached out and covered Jummo’s ears with his hands, shielding him from the worst of the noise. But his eyes never left Junior’s.

It was a small gesture, a guardian’s instinct. But in that shared, storm lit moment, it felt profoundly intimate. Mark wasn’t just protecting Jummo, his intense, steady gaze was a silent anchor thrown to Junior across the room. It was as if he were saying, I see you. It’s loud for me, too. But we are safe here.

The moment stretched, suspended in the charged air. The sound of the rain faded to a background hum. Junior’s heart hammered against his ribs, but it was no longer just from fear. The look in Mark’s eyes was one of such unexpected, unwavering gentleness that it stole the air from Junior’s lungs.

The thunder rolled away, grumbling into the distance.

Mark slowly lowered his hands from Jummo’s ears. Junior let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his own shoulders relaxing. The fear was gone, replaced by a warm, spreading calm.

“The sky giants must have dropped a whole bookshelf,” Junior said, his voice a little huskier than usual.

Mark’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles. “They should really be more careful.”

The other parents arrived soon after, flustered and apologetic, collecting Babii and Polca. The storm began to abate, the rain softening to a steady, gentle patter.

Finally, it was just the three of them again. Junior handed Mark a stack of paper towels from the supply closet. “For the… uh… monsoon look you’ve got going on.”

“Thank you,” Mark said, dabbing at his face and hair. He looked… softer like this. More approachable.

They packed up Jummo’s belongings in a comfortable silence. As they walked out into the now damp evening, the world felt freshly washed and quiet. The frantic energy of the storm had passed, leaving behind a strange, profound peace.

Junior locked the classroom door, his movements slow. He turned to find Mark watching him, Jummo already drowsy in his arms.

“Get home safe, Teacher Junior,” Mark said. His voice was low, meant just for the space between them.

“You too, Mark,” Junior replied softly. “And… thank you. For rushing.”

Mark simply nodded, but the look in his eyes said everything. It was a look that promised safety. A look that promised, I will always rush.

As Junior walked to his own car, the memory of Mark’s steady gaze and those gentle hands covering Jummo’s ears played on a loop in his mind. The storm hadn’t been a disaster. It had been a revelation.

***

It had been one of those weeks. The kind that started with a spilled gallon of milk and somehow snowballed into an avalanche of minor catastrophes. A pipe had burst in the teachers’ lounge, the shipment for the end of term art project was delayed, and the school printer had decided to exclusively print everything in a faint, ghostly pink.

But the real mountain, the Everest of his current troubles, was the stack of end of term developmental reports sitting on his desk. Twenty five detailed, personalized reports that needed to be finished, printed (in nonpink ink), and sent home by Friday. It was Wednesday. 9:17 PM.

Junior sat alone in the silent Yellow Class classroom, the only light coming from his desk lamp. It cast a warm, lonely pool over the chaotic landscape of papers, colored folders, and a half eaten, now soggy sandwich. The cheerful, vibrant room of the day felt like a different universe at night. The smiling suns on the walls seemed to mock him.

His head throbbed. His eyes were dry and gritty. Every time he thought he’d finished a report, he’d reread it and find a typo, or decide his phrasing was all wrong. “Jummo is developing strong fine motor skills” sounded too clinical. “Jummo is getting really good at holding his crayon!” sounded unprofessional. He deleted and retyped the same sentence for the fifth time.

This was the part of teaching they never showed in the movies. The endless paperwork. The administrative hoops. The pressure to perfectly capture a child’s growth in a few sterile paragraphs. The weight of knowing parents would dissect every word. The fear that he wasn't doing enough, that he was failing them in ways he couldn't even see.

He was drowning in it. The silence of the room, usually a respite, felt oppressive. The world, for all its lack of childish noise, felt deafeningly loud inside his own head. A cacophony of self doubt and exhaustion.

He didn’t hear the soft footsteps in the hallway. The door, which he thought he’d locked, pushed open with a quiet creak.

Junior jumped, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing in the doorway, backlit by the dim hall lights, was Mark.

He was holding two paper bags from the Japanese convenience store down the street. He looked, as always, perfectly put together in a simple dark sweater and jeans, his expression unreadable.

“The security guard said you were still here,” Mark said, his voice calm and level, cutting through the noisy static in Junior’s brain. “Why are you still here?”

The question was so direct, so simple. It shouldn’t have been the thing to break him. But the dam of his composure cracked. Junior let out a shaky breath and gestured helplessly at the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

“The parents’ reports,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue. “I didn’t finish them. They’re due Friday and I… I just didn’t finish.”

Mark’s eyes scanned the desk, the empty coffee cup, the defeated slump of Junior’s shoulders. He didn’t say anything. He simply walked in, placed the two bags on a cleared spot on the desk, and began unpacking them. He pulled out two plastic containers of takeaway katsu don, a pair of chopsticks, and two bottles of green tea.

“Eat,” he said, pushing one of the containers and a set of chopsticks toward Junior.

Junior stared at him, bewildered. “Mark, I… I really have to get these done.”

“You will,” Mark stated, as if it were an undeniable fact of the universe. “But you will do it more effectively with food in your system. Your blood sugar is likely critically low. Eat.”

The command was so blunt, so utterly Mark, that a weak, protesting laugh bubbled out of Junior. He was too tired to argue. The smell of the food was suddenly irresistible. He picked up the chopsticks, his hands trembling slightly from caffeine and fatigue.

Mark pulled up a tiny chair from one of the kindergarten tables. It looked absurdly small beneath him, his knees comically high. He made no comment, simply opening his own container and beginning to eat with his usual quiet efficiency.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The hot, comforting food was a balm. Junior could feel some of the tension leaching from his shoulders with every bite.

“You’re bossy,” Junior muttered around a mouthful of rice and pork, not looking at him.

Mark didn’t even glance up. “You’re hopeless.”

The words were flat, but there was no bite to them. None at all. In fact, they were layered with a fondness so thick it was almost tangible.

Junior finally looked up, meeting Mark’s gaze across the desk littered with his failures. A soft, genuine smile touched his lips, the first real one all night. “And yet you’re here,” he said softly.

The silence that fell this time was different. It was loaded. It was heavy with things unsaid. Mark’s chopsticks stilled. He looked at Junior, really looked at him, taking in the exhaustion etched into his features, the stubborn light still fighting in his eyes. He saw the chaos, yes, but he saw the profound dedication beneath it.

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t offer a logical explanation about being in the neighborhood. He just held Junior’s gaze, his own dark eyes impossibly soft.

“Yes,” Mark said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I am.”

That simple affirmation hung in the air between them, a confession more powerful than any flowery declaration. He was there. In a tiny chair, in a dark classroom, at 9:30 PM on a Wednesday. He was there.

When they finished eating, Mark wordlessly gathered the trash and packed it away. He then picked up a stack of completed reports. “I will check these for spelling errors. My attention to detail is superior to yours when you are in this state.”

Junior wanted to protest, to say it wasn’t his job, but the offer was so practical, so helpful, that he just nodded, a lump forming in his throat. For the next hour, they worked in a companionable silence. Junior wrote, his mind clearer now, his thoughts flowing more easily. Mark read through each finished report, his sharp eyes catching typos and suggesting clearer phrasing with a quiet, “What if you said it like this?”

It was the most peaceful, supported Junior had felt in weeks. The world was no longer loud. The only sounds were the scratch of his pen, the rustle of paper, and the steady, calming presence of the man across from him.

When the last report was finally finished and stacked neatly, Junior leaned back in his chair, utterly spent but profoundly relieved. “I owe you my life.”

“You owe me a new chair. My legs have lost circulation,” Mark deadpanned, standing up and stretching with a wince.

Junior laughed, the sound free and easy in the quiet room. As they walked out together, turning off the lights and locking the door, Junior realized something. He hadn’t just been helped with his work. He had been seen in his most vulnerable moment, and instead of being judged, he had been quietly, steadfastly cared for. And that, he thought, stealing a glance at Mark’s profile in the dim hallway, was a feeling more addictive than any caffeine.

***

Sunday morning was Junior’s sanctuary. It was the one day he could sleep in, move slowly, and indulge in the simple, civilian pleasure of going to a cafe without a trail of glitter or a pocket full of lost teeth in tow. He’d found a quiet spot tucked away from the main bustle, a place with deep, comfortable armchairs and the rich, earthy smell of properly roasted beans.

He was nestled in his usual corner, a large latte and an unread novel on the table before him, savoring the blissful lack of responsibility. He had just taken a sip of his coffee, closing his eyes in appreciation, when a shadow fell over him.

He opened his eyes, expecting the barista. Instead, he found Mark standing there, holding a simple black coffee. He was dressed in casual weekend clothes, a soft, grey henley and dark jeans, and he looked as startled as Junior felt.

“Junior?” Mark said, his tone laced with surprise.

“Mark!” Junior sat up straighter, a delighted smile spreading across his face. “What are you doing here? Where’s my favorite tiny human?”

“With his aunt. She has taken him to the zoo,” Mark explained, his eyes scanning the cafe. “This is… my weekend ritual.”

“Mine too!” Junior said, his heart doing a little flip. “I had no idea you came here. This is my spot.” He gestured to the empty armchair opposite him. “Do you… want to join me? Unless you were hoping for some alone time. Which is totally fine! I get it.”

Mark hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Alone time is overrated,” he said, and settled into the chair across from Junior. It was a stunningly un Mark like thing to say.

For a moment, they just sat in a slightly awkward silence, two men from completely intersecting worlds suddenly meeting on neutral ground. Then Junior grinned. “So. A software engineer who likes good coffee. I’m learning all your secrets.”

“It is not a secret. It is a preference for caffeine that doesn’t taste like burnt tires,” Mark replied, taking a sip of his coffee.

Junior barked out a laugh, drawing a few looks from other patrons. “Tell me how you really feel!” And just like that, the awkwardness vanished.

They talked. And they didn’t stop. The conversation flowed with an ease that shocked both of them. They talked about everything and nothing. Junior told stories from his university days, dramatic tales of failed art projects and roommate drama, his hands flying animatedly. Mark listened, a small, amused smile playing on his lips, and offered dry, witty observations about the illogical nature of university administration.

In turn, Mark spoke about his work, explaining complex coding problems in surprisingly accessible analogies that involved kindergarten rules. (“So, the firewall is like the classroom gate. It checks everyone’s ID before they can come in and play with the data toys.”) Junior found himself fascinated, not just by the subject, but by the quiet passion in Mark’s voice when he talked about creating something elegant and functional.

The morning melted away. Their coffees were long finished, but neither made a move to leave. Junior had forgotten his book entirely. He was captivated by this version of Mark: relaxed, dryly humorous, and fully present, without the filter of being “Jummo’s Uncle” or “Teacher Junior.”

When the friendly barista came by to clear their cups, she beamed at them. “You two are just the cutest couple. Can I get you anything else? Another round for you and your boyfriend?”

Junior choked on air, his face flushing a brilliant scarlet. He let out a nervous, high pitched laugh. “Oh! No, we’re not… he’s not… we’re just friends!” he stammered, waving his hands frantically.

The barista winked. “Sure, honey. My mistake.” She moved away, leaving a ringing silence in her wake.

Junior dared a glance at Mark. He expected to see horror, or at least mild annoyance. Instead, Mark’s ears were tinged pink. He wasn’t looking at Junior. He was studying his empty coffee cup with intense focus. And he hadn’t corrected her. Not fast enough. Not at all, really.

A slow, daring smile spread across Junior’s face. The initial embarrassment was quickly being replaced by a giddy, thrilling curiosity. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes twinkling.

“So…” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Is that a yes? Are we dating and I just didn’t get the memo?”

Mark finally looked up. The pink on his ears had spread to his cheeks. But his gaze was steady, and a faint, challenging smirk touched his lips. “You’d pass for my type,” he said, his voice even.

The air was punched from Junior’s lungs. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. A dry, Mark style retort. But the look in his eyes… it was warm. Appraising. Sincere.

Both of them blushed deeply now, the shared flush a silent, screaming acknowledgment of the chemistry that had just been named aloud. They looked away from each other, the comfortable ease of moments before now charged with a new, electric tension.

They left the cafe soon after, walking out into the bright Sunday sunlight. The air between them was different, buzzing with unspoken words and possibilities.

Later that evening, when Mark was putting Jummo to bed, the little boy looked up at him, his head tilted. “Uncle,” he said, his voice small and serious. “Why are your ears red?”

Mark, who had been tucking the blankets, froze. He reached up and touched his own ear, as if confirming the child’s observation. He cleared his throat. “It’s… warm in here,” he said, his voice unusually gruff.

Jummo just nodded, accepting the answer, but Mark knew the truth. The blush had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the memory of a cafe, a teasing smile, and the thrilling, terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, he was someone’s type.

***

The Yellow Class classroom was a riot of organized chaos, the kind that Junior excelled at. Streamers in every color of the rainbow crisscrossed the ceiling, a giant, hand painted “Happy Birthday Jummo!” banner hung on the wall, and the tables were pushed together to form one long surface for the feast. The air smelled of sugar, fruit punch, and the faint, clean scent of the balloons bobbing in the corner.

It was Jummo’s fifth birthday, and Junior had pulled out all the stops. He’d organized games: “Pin the Tail on the Stegosaurus” and “Musical Dinosaur Eggs” handmade party hats for every child, and even convinced the school cook to bake a cake in the shape of a triceratops.

Mark stood near the back of the room, watching the controlled bedlam with a sense of awe. He saw Junior everywhere at once: tying a blindfold for Polca, refilling Jaidee’s cup of punch before it could spill, leading a thunderous, off key rendition of “Happy Birthday” with more enthusiasm than tune. He was a maestro of merriment, his laugh the constant, melodic backbone of the party.

And through it all, Jummo was beaming. His usual quiet reserve had melted away completely. He was laughing, playing, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated joy. He kept looking for Mark in the crowd, giving him tiny, excited waves as if to say, Can you believe this is for me?

Mark’s heart felt too big for his chest. This was what Junior did. He didn’t just teach. He built worlds of joy for these children. He made them feel celebrated and loved.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Junior led event without a minor catastrophe. As Junior was carrying the magnificent triceratops cake to the table, Saturnworld, in his excitement, bumped into him. The cake wobbled precariously. Junior managed to save it from a full face plunge to the floor, but a large glob of green frosting landed squarely on top of his head, oozing slowly into his hair.

A hush fell over the children.

Junior just laughed. A loud, genuine, unbothered laugh. “Well, look at that! The triceratops gave me a birthday kiss!” He grabbed a napkin, wiped at the frosting, and only succeeded in smearing it further. The children erupted in giggles, the crisis instantly transformed into a hilarious highlight.

Mark watched, a slow smile spreading across his face. The man was incorrigible. And utterly magnificent.

The party wound down, and the children, hyped up on sugar and excitement, were collected by their parents. Jummo, clutching a bag of presents and favors, was picked up by his mom, who showered Junior with thanks.

“I’ll just stay and help clean up,” Mark told her, taking the keys.

Soon, the classroom was empty and quiet again, a ghost of its former festive self. Junior was already at work, humming to himself as he gathered paper plates and deflating balloons. He had a streak of green frosting by his ear and a piece of purple crepe paper stuck to his shoe.

“That was… a logistical marvel,” Mark said, picking up a discarded juice box.

Junior looked up, his face flushed with success and exhaustion. “It was fun, wasn’t it? Did you see Jummo’s face during the dinosaur egg hunt? Priceless.”

“I saw,” Mark said softly. “Thank you, Junior. For all of this.”

“It’s my job,” Junior said with a shrug, but he looked pleased.

They cleaned in comfortable silence for a while, restoring order to the room. As Junior was taking the last bag of trash out, Mark stopped him.

“Wait here for a moment,” Mark said, a strange, almost nervous note in his voice. He disappeared out the classroom door.

Junior frowned, puzzled. He busied himself by wiping down the one clean table, wondering what Mark was up to. A few minutes later, Mark returned. He was holding a small, simple white box.

“What’s that?” Junior asked.

Mark placed the box on the table. “Open it.”

Curious, Junior lifted the lid. Inside was a single, perfect slice of chocolate fudge cake, adorned with a single, lit candle. It wasn’t from the school kitchen. It was from the fancy French patisserie two blocks away.

Junior stared at it, utterly confused. “What…? Is this for Jummo? But he already had cake.”

Mark shook his head, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips. “It’s not for Jummo.” He paused, his dark eyes meeting Junior’s. “You forgot your own birthday, didn’t you?”

Junior’s breath hitched. He looked from the cake to Mark’s face and back again. His birthday. It had been two days ago. In the whirlwind of preparing for Jummo’s party and finishing the term end reports, he had completely, utterly forgotten. He’d gone home, eaten leftover katsu don, and fallen asleep on the couch.

“You… you remembered?” Junior’s voice was barely a whisper, thick with an emotion he couldn’t name.

Mark shrugged, looking down at the cake to avoid Junior’s gaze, trying and failing to hide his smile. “Hard not to. You talk a lot. You mentioned it weeks ago when you were planning the party dates.”

The simplicity of the statement, the sheer fact of being listened to, of being remembered, slammed into Junior with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t a grand gesture. It was quiet, and personal, and so incredibly thoughtful. Mark had heard him, in the midst of all his chaotic chatter, and had filed away a piece of information simply because it was about him.

Tears pricked at the corners of Junior’s eyes. He blinked them back rapidly, a wobbly, brilliant smile spreading across his face. His heart felt so full it ached.

He leaned his chin on his hand, his eyes soft and shining as he looked at Mark. The teasing tone was back, but it was layered with a profound, aching fondness. “You listen a lot.”

The air between them grew warm and still. The affection they had been carefully tending for weeks was no longer hiding in shadows or coded in jokes. It was right there, visible in the flickering candlelight, in the single slice of cake, in the way they looked at each other, fully seen, fully known.

Mark didn’t deny it. He just looked back at Junior, his own gaze open and sincere. “Make a wish, Junior.”

Junior looked at the candle, then back at Mark. He knew exactly what he was wishing for. He took a deep breath and blew the candle out, the tiny flame extinguished in a wisp of smoke, its secret carried straight from his heart into the universe.

The rainy season was over. The air was now clear, and warm, and filled with the sweet, promising scent of chocolate and something new, something brave, beginning to bloom.

Chapter Text

The happiness that had bloomed after Jummo’s birthday party was a delicate, precious thing. Junior carried it with him like a secret talisman, the memory of the chocolate cake and Mark’s soft, knowing smile a constant source of warmth. They hadn’t defined what was happening between them, but the air now hummed with a mutual, acknowledged potential. A "slow burn" that was finally, beautifully, catching fire.

It was this warmth that sustained him through the final, frantic weeks of the semester. The classroom was a whirlwind of review sessions, portfolio preparations, and the bittersweet task of helping his ducklings get ready to fly the nest to Primary One.

He was sorting through a mountain of artwork one afternoon, the silence of naptime a peaceful blanket over the room, when his phone buzzed with a cascade of notifications from the Yellow Class LINE group. He smiled, expecting reminders about sunscreen or photos from a recent field trip.

He opened the app. The messages weren't about sunscreen.

They were a few threads down, a conversation that had branched off from a discussion about the upcoming school festival.

Film (Lunar’s Mom): Did anyone else see Mr. Mark staying so late after the birthday party? He was there until almost everyone was gone.

Bonnie (Any’s Mom): He’s always there, isn’t he? Even for things the other uncles don’t come to.

Gun (Babii’s Dad): It’s very sweet how involved he is. Teacher Junior is so good with Jummo.

Tay (Polca’s Dad): They do seem… very close. 😉

Milk (Muv’s Mom): Right? I saw them talking by the gate last week. The way Mr. Mark looks at him… it’s not just a parent and teacher look.

Boom (Ceri’s Dad):Oh my gosh, do you think they’re…? 🤐

Bonnie (Any’s Mom): It would explain a lot! All those late nights at school. All the ‘helping’.

Film (Lunar’s Mom): Shhh! He’s in this group! But… it does make you wonder. Is it… appropriate?

Junior’s blood ran cold. The phone felt like a block of ice in his hand. He stared at the screen, the cheerful emojis and casual fonts twisting into something sinister. Appropriate.

The word echoed in the silent room, drowning out the soft breathing of the sleeping children. It was a bucket of cold reality, dousing the gentle flame he’d been nurturing.

He’d been naive. He’d been so wrapped up in the giddy, terrifying thrill of his feelings for Mark, in the quiet comfort of their growing closeness, that he’d forgotten to consider how it looked from the outside. He was Jummo’s teacher. Mark was Jummo’s guardian. Their worlds were supposed to have a professional, clearly defined border, and he had been gleefully blurring every single line.

The warmth of the past few weeks vanished, replaced by a sick, churning guilt. He loved his job with every fiber of his being. This classroom was his heart, his purpose. The trust of these parents was the foundation of everything he did. And now they were whispering. They were questioning his professionalism, his ethics. “Is it appropriate?”

What if the principal saw these messages? What if other parents, ones not as fond of him, started to complain? He was a chaotic, sometimes unorthodox teacher, but he was a good one. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t let a rumor, no matter how unfounded it currently was, tarnish the reputation he’d worked so hard to build.

The fear was instantaneous and paralyzing. His first instinct, honed by a lifetime of using laughter as a shield, was to retreat. To put distance between the source of the rumor and his professional life.

When Mark arrived for pick up that day, Junior was a masterclass in polite, professional detachment.

“Hello, Mark. Jummo had a great day. His portfolio is in his bag. Have a good evening,” he said, his voice bright and breezy, but his eyes didn’t quite meet Mark’s. He was already turning away, helping Jaidee with her backpack, before Mark could even formulate a response.

Mark paused, a slight frown creasing his brow. He’d grown accustomed to the warm, private smiles, the lingering eye contact that felt like a secret handshake. This was different. This was the Teacher Junior from the first day of school, the one who existed behind a cheerful, impenetrable wall.

“Is everything alright?” Mark asked, his voice low.

“Of course! Everything’s fine! Just a busy day,” Junior chirped, his back still turned as he fussed with a display of clay sculptures. “See you tomorrow, Jummo!”

He felt Mark’s gaze on his back, a heavy, questioning weight. But he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t.

The pattern continued the next day, and the day after that. He kept his interactions with Mark brief and public. He stopped replying to his private LINE messages with anything more than a thumbs up emoji. When Mark lingered by the gate, Junior would suddenly remember a pressing task inside the classroom.

He was building a wall, brick by painful brick, and with every one he laid, he could see the confusion and then the quiet hurt in Mark’s eyes. Mark, who noticed everything, was noticing this. He was being shut out, and he had no idea why.

The guilt was a physical ache in Junior’s chest, a constant companion. He was hurting the one person who had seen past his chaos and chosen to stay. He was protecting his career, but it felt like he was betraying his own heart. The classroom, once his sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage, and he was the one who had locked the door from the inside.

***

The end of semester parent and teacher meetings were always a marathon. Junior sat at his small desk, the one usually reserved for playdoh and puzzle pieces, and met with each set of parents, discussing their child’s progress, their strengths, their beautiful, unique quirks. He presented their portfolios, his voice filled with genuine pride and affection.

It was draining, but fulfilling work. And throughout the afternoon, a part of him was acutely, painfully aware of the last appointment on his list: Mark.

He’d scheduled him last on purpose, a coward’s move, giving himself no reason to rush their conversation. As the final parents, Avocean’s, left with smiles and handshakes, the classroom fell into a heavy silence. Junior busied himself with straightening the already straight piles of paper, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs.

The door opened, and Mark stepped in. Alone.

“Jummo’s with his mom,” he explained, his voice neutral. He took the small chair opposite Junior’s desk, the same one he’d occupied during the late night report session. He didn’t look uncomfortable this time. He looked resolved.

“So,” Junior began, pulling out Jummo’s portfolio with a forced, professional smile. “Jummo has had a fantastic semester. His language skills have just blossomed, and his social confidence…”

“Junior.”

The single word, spoken softly but with undeniable force, cut him off. Junior’s eyes flickered up from the portfolio to meet Mark’s gaze. It was direct, unwavering, and filled with a quiet intensity that made Junior’s carefully constructed facade tremble.

“Did I do something wrong?” Mark asked. The question was simple, stripped of all pretense.

“What? No! Of course not,” Junior stammered, the words coming out too fast. “Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks. Your replies are monosyllabic. You won’t look at me for more than three seconds. The data is conclusive.” Mark’s tone was analytical, but the slight tremor in his hands, clenched on his knees, betrayed his emotion. “So, I am asking. What did I do?”

Junior’s mind raced, scrambling for a joke, a deflection, anything to avoid the terrifying vulnerability of the truth. “Maybe I’m just finally getting tired of your grumpy face,” he tried, aiming for levity but landing somewhere near desperation.

Mark didn’t smile. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower. “You don’t have to protect me from rumors, Junior.”

The air left Junior’s lungs in a whoosh. He stared, his mouth agape. “You… you saw them?”

“I am in the group chat. Of course I saw them,” Mark said, his gaze never wavering. “I chose to ignore them because they are irrelevant. The opinions of people who do not know us are statistically insignificant.”

The logical, Mark like response was the final crack in Junior’s defenses. The professional smile finally shattered, and the fear and guilt he’d been carrying spilled out. He slumped in his chair, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not that simple, Mark!” he said, his voice thick with frustration. “It’s not just about rumors. It’s about my job. I love this job. These kids… this room… it’s everything to me. I can’t risk it. I can’t have parents questioning my judgment, my professionalism. What if they think I’m giving Jummo special treatment? What if the principal gets involved? I’m the chaotic teacher, Mark. The one who loses his whistle and gets covered in glitter. I’m on thin ice on a good day. Something like this… it could cost me everything.”

He finally laid it bare, the core of his fear. It wasn’t just about them. It was about the very foundation of his identity.

Mark listened, his expression unreadable. When Junior finished, the room was silent save for the hum of the air conditioner.

“I understand,” Mark said, and the words were so quiet, so sincere, that they soothed the raw edges of Junior’s panic. “I would never ask you to risk your career. Never.”

The fight drained out of Junior, leaving him feeling hollow and exhausted. “Then you understand why I have to… create some distance.”

“I understand your fear,” Mark corrected gently. “But I don’t understand why you are pushing me away.” He paused, choosing his words with typical precision. “The rumors are about both of us. We are in this situation together. But you have been acting as if I am the problem that needs to be managed. You have been treating me like a threat to your stability, instead of… someone who wants to be your stability.”

Junior’s eyes welled with tears. He looked at Mark, truly looked at him, and saw not anger or accusation, but a profound, patient hurt. He saw the man who had stayed, who had helped, who had remembered his birthday.

“I’m sorry,” Junior whispered, the words inadequate. “I was just… scared.”

“I know,” Mark said. “But you don’t have to be scared of me.”

They sat in the quiet classroom, the space between them no longer filled with a wall, but with a bridge of hard won honesty. Mark hadn’t asked for a declaration. He hadn’t demanded a relationship. He had simply asked not to be pushed away. It was such a modest, heartbreaking request.

Junior wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, a shaky breath escaping him. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was a stupid way to handle it.”

“It was a human way to handle it,” Mark replied. He didn’t move from his chair, but he felt closer than he had in weeks. The distance was gone.

They finished the parent and teacher meeting then, discussing Jummo’s progress with a new, quiet ease. As Mark stood to leave, he paused by the door.

“The school festival is next week,” he said. “Jummo is very excited for the play.”

“I know,” Junior said, offering a small, genuine smile. “He’s going to be a wonderful Little Prince.”

Mark nodded. “I’ll be there.” It was a promise. Not just as Jummo’s uncle, but as himself. As the man who saw him, and who was choosing to stay, even when it was hard.

“I know,” Junior said again, his heart feeling lighter than it had in days. “I’ll see you then.”

For the first time in two weeks, he believed it, and the thought filled him not with fear, but with a steady, blooming hope.

***

The school hall was a sea of proud parents and buzzing excitement. On the small, makeshift stage, Junior’s Yellow Class was performing their adaptation of “The Little Prince.” It had been his passion project for the semester, a story about love, responsibility, and the things that are essential but invisible to the eye.

Junior, dressed in a simple black shirt, stood at a podium to the side, serving as the narrator. His voice, usually so loud and exuberant, was soft and filled with wonder as he guided the story.

“And then the Little Prince came to a garden of roses…” he read, and a group of children in red and pink costumes, including Babii and Ceri, twirled onto the stage.

But Junior’s eyes, like the audience’s, were fixed on the small boy in the center, wearing a golden paper crown and a green cape. Jummo, as the Little Prince, had one line. He stood before a cardboard box painted to look like a rose, covered in red crepe paper.

He looked out at the audience, his little face serious under the lights. He found Mark in the front row, who gave him a small, encouraging nod. Then he looked at Junior, who smiled and nodded too.

Jummo took a deep breath. “You are beautiful,” he said to the rose, his voice clear and steady, “but you are empty. One could not die for you.”

The line, so profound and heavy coming from a four years old, brought a hushed, tender silence over the hall. It was perfect.

From his spot at the podium, Junior’s gaze drifted from Jummo to Mark. Mark had his phone out, recording the performance, his expression one of such naked, proud affection that it made Junior’s throat tighten. He wasn’t just filming his nephew. He was documenting a moment of pure courage, a milestone in the life of the little boy he loved so fiercely.

The play concluded with a rousing round of applause. The children took their bows, beaming under the adoration. Jummo, his part done, ran straight off the stage and into Mark’s waiting arms, burying his face in his uncle’s neck. Mark held him close, whispering something in his ear that made Jummo giggle.

Later, after the festival was officially over and the hall was emptying, Junior was back in his classroom, surrounded by the detritus of the performance: discarded costumes, props, and leftover programs. He was tired, but it was a good tired, saturated with the glow of a job well done.

The door opened, and Mark walked in, Jummo half asleep on his shoulder.

“I thought you might need help,” Mark said quietly.

Junior smiled, a tired, genuine thing. “Always.”

They worked together in the now familiar, comfortable silence of two people who had found their rhythm. Mark folded capes with military precision while Junior sorted through the paper rose garden. It felt natural. It felt right.

As they stacked the last of the chairs, Junior let out a long, contented sigh. He looked at Mark, who was carefully placing Jummo’s golden crown into his backpack.

“You know,” Junior said softly, leaning against a table. “You’re here for every big day. The birthday party, the parent and teacher meeting, the festival… You never miss one.”

Mark finished zipping the backpack and looked up. The soft light from the desk lamp illuminated his features, making him look younger, softer. A small, sincere smile touched his lips.

“That’s what family does,” he said simply.

The words landed in the quiet room not as a pressure or a demand, but as a quiet, profound statement of fact. They weren’t about blood or legal ties. They were about choice. They were about showing up. Mark had chosen to show up for Jummo, yes, but he had also chosen, again and again, to show up for Junior.

And in that moment, standing amidst the leftover magic of a kindergarten play, Junior realized the truth. He wasn’t just an outside observer of their small family. He wasn't just Jummo’s teacher or Mark’s… whatever they were. He was part of it. He was woven into the fabric of their lives, his chaotic threads inseparable from their calmer ones. He belonged with them.

He looked at Mark, and the last of his fears melted away, replaced by a certainty so deep and calm it felt like coming home.

“Yeah,” Junior whispered, his heart so full he thought it might burst. “I guess it is.”

***

The final day of the semester arrived with a bittersweet tang. The Yellow Class classroom was stripped bare, the artwork taken down, the cubbies empty. Goodbyes were said with a mixture of tears and promises to visit. Junior hugged each of his ducklings tightly, his own eyes misty.

“Be good in Primary One,” he told them, his voice thick. “And don’t forget to be kind.”

Finally, it was just him and the empty, echoing room. The silence was profound. He took a deep breath, the scent of lemon disinfectant and childhood memories filling his lungs. It was over. Another year. He’d survived the glitter, the thunderstorms, the bubble machine explosions, and the paperwork. He’d done it.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and did one last walk through. That’s when he saw it, a small, folded piece of paper left on his desk chair. It was covered in Jummo’s distinctive, wobbly handwriting, the letters large and painstakingly formed.

He picked it up, a fond smile on his face. He unfolded it.

The message was simple, and it shattered him.

dear mr junyor

plees mary my unkel mark

so you can be my mr junyor for ever

love

jummo

A sob caught in Junior’s throat, followed by a wet, helpless laugh. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at the misspelled, heartfelt proposal. It was the most beautiful, ridiculous, perfect thing he had ever read. It was the final, undeniable confirmation of everything he had come to feel. This wasn't just about him and Mark. It was about the three of them. A family, forged in glitter and quiet care, held together by the love of a four years old boy and his dinosaur.

He folded the note carefully, tucking it into the safest pocket of his bag, right next to his heart. He wiped his eyes, took a steadying breath, and walked out of the classroom for the last time that semester.

He walked down the familiar hallway and pushed open the heavy front door, stepping out into the late afternoon sun. The school gate stood before him, the same gate where he had first met a tall, serious man holding a lunchbox upside down.

And there he was.

Mark was waiting, leaning against the gatepost. He wasn't holding Jummo’s hand. He was alone. He was dressed simply, but he looked nervous, his posture a little too straight, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Junior’s steps slowed, then stopped a few feet away. The world seemed to hold its breath. The sounds of the city faded away. It was just the two of them, at the gate, as it had always been, and yet, nothing was the same.

Junior felt the weight of the note in his bag. A slow, teary, radiant smile spread across his face.

“So,” he said, his voice soft but clear, laced with a teasing tenderness that made Mark’s breath catch. “Jummo’s proposal… or yours?”

Mark pushed himself off the gatepost. The nervousness in his eyes melted away, replaced by a love so deep and certain it was like looking into the sun. He took a small step forward.

“Mine,” he said, the single word a vow.

Junior’s smile widened, his heart soaring. “Finally.”

He closed the distance between them. There, in the golden light of the setting sun, in full view of the empty schoolyard and anyone who might pass by, he reached up, cupped Mark’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

It was not a dramatic, passionate kiss. It was soft. It was gentle. It was a promise. It tasted of chocolate cake and quiet understanding, of shared storms and recovered laughter, of a future that was suddenly, brilliantly, wide open.

When they parted, foreheads resting together, Mark’s arms wrapped securely around Junior’s waist, Junior let out a watery laugh.

“You know,” he whispered, “for once, the gate wasn’t the place where we said goodbye.”

Mark smiled, a real, full, breathtaking smile that reached his eyes. He leaned in and kissed Junior once more, softly.

“It was where everything started.”

And as they walked away from the school, hand in hand, the gate stood silent behind them, no longer a boundary, but a beginning.