Chapter 2: Strawberry Milk Ambush
The frozen expanse of the Silver Ice Academy parking lot offered no solace. Hyukjae crunched across the grit-strewn asphalt, his breath pluming in the predawn gloom. The earlier adrenaline had curdled into a thick, sluggish shame that sat heavy in his stomach.Princess.Sweet dreams. The words looped in his head, an insult and a secret, burning like a brand.
His car, a practical black sedan, waited in its usual spot. He approached, fumbling for his keys in his jacket pocket, his mind already plotting the scalding shower he would take to purge the feel of Donghae’s glove on his skin, his thumb on his brow.
Then he saw it.
Taped to the center of his windshield, stark against the glass, was a single carton of strawberry milk.The pink packaging was absurdly bright in the muted light. A yellow sticky note was affixed to it.Hyukjae stopped.The air felt thinner. He stared, as if the object might dematerialize.It didn’t. He closed the remaining distance in two quick strides and tore the note free, the tape snapping with a petty sound.
The handwriting was infuriatingly neat, almost elegant.For my princess.Drink up.
xo
A laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped him. He looked around the empty lot, half-expecting to see Donghae leaning against a far car, watching. But there was only the distant hum of the rink and the faint cry of a waking crow. The ordinariness of the gesture—the childish milk, the casual ‘xo’—somehow made it feel more violating. It was a presumption of intimacy, a flag planted in the soil of his life.
He crumpled the note into a tight, damp ball. His first instinct was to leave the milk there, to let it freeze and burst, a sticky pink monument to his disregard.But that felt like leaving evidence, like acknowledging it mattered. He snatched the carton off the glass, the tape ripping a faint squeak from the surface. He marched to the large industrial trash bin anchored to the lamppost, lifted the heavy lid, and threw it inside. The carton landed with a soft, unsatisfying thud among coffee cups and sandwich wrappers.He dropped the crumpled note in after it.
“Nothing,” he said aloud to the gray morning, his voice flat. “It means nothing.”
But his palms were sweating inside his gloves.The shower at home did nothing. The hot water needled his skin, but underneath, a low-grade tremor persisted. He dressed mechanically, the image of the pink carton flashing behind his eyes at odd moments: while brushing his teeth, while tying his shoes. It was an insidious, ridiculous grenade lobbed into his routine.
Hyohyeon was already at the kitchen table, scribbling in a notebook.“You look tense,” she said without looking up. “More than usual.”
“I’m fine.”
“Did the new guy steal your favorite spot on the bench again?Or, I don’t know, breathe in your direction?”
He shot her a look. She just grinned, sipping her orange juice.She had no idea. The normalcy of it, the sheer distance between her teasing and the dense, confusing reality of Donghae’s focus, made him feel strangely lonely.The walk to his first-period class took him past the athletics wing. His locker was in a corridor smelling of old vinyl flooring and disinfectant.He needed his economics textbook. He spun the combination, the familiar numbers a small anchor.The door swung open.
And there, centered perfectly on the top shelf where his books should be, was another carton of strawberry milk. This one was upright, like a sentinel.No note.Just the product, placed with deliberate care.
The world narrowed to that small rectangle of pink. The sound of the hallway faded—the slamming of distant lockers, the laughter, the shuffle of feet. All he could hear was the blood pulsing in his temples.His hand darted in and closed around the carton. It was cool, slightly damp from condensation. He had the wild, violent urge to crush it in his fist, to feel the liquid burst and stain his clothes, to destroy this thing that had somehow followed him, permeated his spaces.But someone might see.Someone might report back.His fingers trembled. It was a fine, uncontrollable vibration, a hum of pure energy seeking release. He recognized the feeling.It was the same coiled wire of fury that snapped his stick against the ice. But intertwined with it now was something else, a slick, hot thread of panic. Because this wasn’t just aggression.It was attention.Obsessive, detailed, personal attention. Donghae had been here.Had opened his locker—or had someone else do it—just to leave this.
He wanted to find him.He wanted to shove the carton down his throat. He wanted to scream in his face until that smug smile finally cracked.
He also, for a single, shameful second, wondered what the milk tasted like.The conflict paralyzed him. He stood there, statue-still, holding the evidence. The tremor in his hands traveled up his arms, a current of pure, undiluted feeling.It wasn’t just rage.It was too acute, too specific. It felt like being seen under a microscope, every flaw and reaction documented, and the scientist was smiling, delighted by every twitch.“Hyukjae.”
The voice came from behind him, close. He knew it instantly.The tremor spiked. He slammed his locker shut with his free hand, the metal clang echoing like a gunshot in the now-empty corridor. He turned, shoving the carton into his backpack as he moved.
Donghae leaned against the opposite lockers, already changed into his street clothes—dark, expensive jeans, a soft-looking gray sweater. He looked infuriatingly well-rested. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“What do you want?” Hyukjae’s voice was gravel.“Just checking in. You seemed a little… overheated last night.” Donghae’s eyes flickered to Hyukjae’s backpack, then back to his face.A slow smile spread. “Did you get my note?”
“I threw it away.”
“The milk too?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Donghae pushed off the lockers and took a step forward. The space between them crackled, charged with the unacknowledged gift now buried in Hyukjae’s bag. “Liar.”
“Get out of my way.”
“You kept it.” Donghae’s tone was light, conversational.“Or you’re keeping it now.I can tell. Your ears are doing that thing again.”
Hyukjae shouldered past him, a hard, deliberate contact. Donghae didn’t budge, just absorbed the impact, his smile never wavering.
“Strawberry’s your favorite, right?” Donghae called after him. “I asked Hyohyeon.She said you used to drink it after every little league game when you were a kid. Cute.”
Hyukjae froze.He turned slowly. The mention of his sister, the digging, the excavation of a harmless, private nostalgia—it crossed a line. The chaotic energy inside him crystallized into something cold and sharp. “You stay away from my sister.”
Donghae held up his hands, a picture of innocence.“Just making conversation!She’s sweet. Very protective of you. It’s nice.” He dropped his hands, his expression shifting into something softer, more serious.“I just wanted to give you something you liked. A peace offering.”
“This isn’t peace. This is stalking.”
“It’s courtship,” Donghae corrected, as if explaining the weather.“There’s a difference.One is scary. The other is… persistent.” He took a final step closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t have to drink it.But you will.Because you’re curious. Because I’m getting under that perfect, thick skin of yours.And you hate it. And you love it.”
Hyukjae had no words left.Every possible retort felt feeble. He just stared, trapped by the accuracy of it, by the maddening, luminous certainty in Donghae’s brown eyes.The warning bell rang, a harsh, electronic shriek that shattered the moment. Donghae’s public smile slid back into place.“See you at practice, Captain. Try not to break any more expensive equipment. It’s bad for the environment.” He winked and sauntered away, whistling.Hyukjae stood alone in the emptying hallway. The weight of the carton in his bag felt immense, a nuclear core of contradiction. He walked to his economics class in a daze, the lecture a muffled drone. He unzipped his bag halfway through, under the desk.His fingers brushed the cool, slick cardboard.
When the professor turned to write on the board, in a moment of perverse, furious defiance, he stabbed the straw through the foil, brought it to his lips under the desk, and took a long, seething drink.The sweetness was cloying, a shock to his system. It tasted like a memory.It tasted like a dare.
He drank the whole thing, every last sickly-sweet drop, his jaw clenched tight.The empty carton felt like a weapon in his hand. He didn’t know who he was aiming it at anymore—Donghae, or himself. All he knew was that the line was gone, erased by a few ounces of pink milk and a smile that knew too much.The game had changed. The rules were his own confusion, and Donghae was winning.