Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 286: Gesture and intentions

Chapter 286: Gesture and intentions

Isabelle’s hand paused mid-gesture as she caught him watching—not with his usual lazy smirk or amused deflection, but with something sharper. More deliberate.

He was actually listening.

And not the surface-level kind either. His eyes followed the shifting maps and migration overlays like he was threading pieces together. Notes flicked up on his tablet—untidy, sure, but there. Active.

Isabelle blinked once.

Why was that surprising?

She didn’t know.

She just hadn’t expected it.

Isabelle’s gaze lingered a moment longer, her hand still resting above the table’s interface.

‘It’s strange…’

The thought came unbidden, but clean.

‘If someone looked at him now—just now—they’d never guess.’

Never guess that a few weeks ago, Damien Elford looked every inch the stereotype: the rich delinquent, coasting on reputation and immunity. Sharp clothes, sharp tongue. Absent from class half the time, lounging through the other half like it bored him to exist.

He gave off that impression so effortlessly it might as well have been planned.

And maybe it was.

Because until recently, no one questioned it. No one expected anything from him except drama, scandal, or that smirk.

But this?

‘This isn’t just a shift. It’s a rupture.’

His tablet—active. His notes—messy but growing. His questions—clear. The way he watched the map, the way he’d repeated terms like “Triumvirate” and “migration trends” without flippancy—it wasn’t just effort. It was direction.

‘You don’t get that from money,’ she thought. ‘Not from staff. Not from tutors bought at five times market rate. This…’

This was earned.

And she couldn’t ignore it.

Even if part of her still instinctively braced against it.

Then—softly, the booth door hissed open again.

A drone glided in, low and quiet, bearing a second tray. Steam curled up from it—rich, warm, the scent of roasted spice and something floral.

‘Ah…’

She blinked. ‘The order.’

She’d completely forgotten.

“Right in time,” Damien said, straightening with a light stretch.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten. Of course he timed it.

She let out a faint sigh—not annoyed, just faintly self-conscious—as the tray clicked softly onto the table.

The tray slid seamlessly into place between them, and with a soft chime, the surface of the table responded.

The entire interface shifted.

Folders and notes parted like parted pages—gliding into the upper corners of the tabletop with quiet precision, while a new panel emerged in the center. The projection grid receded slightly, leaving a soft matte center flanked by adjustable trays for dining. A small, animated prompt hovered above the center:

“Would you like to continue studying? Watch media? Or pause for a break?”

Damien tapped the screen without hesitation—”Continue studying.”

The display restructured itself again, splitting into two clean halves: one with their synced lesson material, the other now minimized but accessible, like a background hum. Their drinks settled into fitted recesses in the table, and two covered bowls clicked open with soft hisses of fragrant steam.

Isabelle’s fingers hovered above the food—but didn’t move.

Her thoughts, which had been so sharply locked into the lecture a moment ago, drifted sideways into the silent throb of something else.

‘This must cost a fortune,’ she thought.

The layout. The interface. The meal tray alone looked like it came from a five-star kitchen dressed as a minimalist tech spa. The food inside was plated with absurd precision—one bowl held what looked like a slow-cooked rice-and-protein blend, flecked with fine herbs and golden threads of something floral. The other had a set of crystal-cut fruit slices, arranged with the kind of attention she usually associated with catalog shoots, not actual meals.

Her stomach tensed—not in hunger. Not yet.

More like anxiety.

‘He’s paying for all this.’

The thought cut harder than it should’ve.

Because it wasn’t like she hadn’t been offered help before. Friends, group partners, even teachers had tried—offhand support, study materials, spare supplies. But this?

This was on another scale.

‘What am I even doing here?’ she thought. ‘In this place? Sitting in a booth that could pay for my monthly rent in three hours?’

She hated that it made her feel small.

Hated that the numbers started swirling in her head—calculations, deductions, reminders of what she’d budgeted for the week and how none of this fit.

And hated—truly hated—that she wasn’t the one paying.

That it made her feel like a leech.

Like she didn’t belong.

She didn’t realize how still she’d gone until—

“What’s with the face, Rep?” Damien’s voice cut across her spiral. “Not hungry?”

Her head snapped slightly in his direction.

He wasn’t mocking her. Not smirking. Just… asking.

And of course—of course—right on cue, her stomach gave a quiet, traitorous gurgle.

Damien blinked, then laughed. Not loud, not sharp—just a low breath of amusement.

Isabelle sighed.

Yes, she was hungry.

But there was a little catch.

She didn’t eat everything.

In fact—she was picky.

Not by choice. Not because she was trying to be difficult. But because ever since she was a child, certain flavors didn’t sit right. Some textures, some combinations—friends had called her dramatic for it. She’d just smile tightly and push the food around on her plate, pretending it wasn’t a problem.

This happened a lot. Too often.

People meant well. They ordered for her, trying to be generous, to treat her. But the moment the lid came off—sauce she couldn’t handle, spices that overwhelmed her—it became a different kind of problem.

‘You should’ve been ready for this,’ she thought bitterly. ‘Should’ve said something. Should’ve known.’

Isabelle’s fingers curled slightly under the edge of the tray, knuckles taut with hesitation.

She needed to say something. Refuse, maybe. Or at least set a line.

Because this—this whole setup, this curated interface and expensive, tech-wrapped hospitality—it wasn’t hers. It didn’t belong in her world. And she hated how the luxury of it tangled with obligation in her chest.

‘Just tell him,’ she thought. ‘Say you’ll pay him back. Say you didn’t ask for this.’

But then she glanced at Damien.

Relaxed posture. Elbow resting near his tray. Chopsticks already in hand.

Not pushing. Not bragging. Just… there.

Looking at her.

And she realized—this wasn’t kindness.

Not really.

Or at least, not in the way people usually framed it.

Damien wasn’t the gentle, let-me-take-care-of-everything type. He was assertive. Unapologetic. He didn’t offer things—he just did them. Called the car. Booked the place. Ordered the meal.

Not because she needed him to.

But because he decided to.

‘So maybe this isn’t charity,’ she thought. ‘Maybe this is just him.’

A breath hitched low in her throat.

‘A punishment, then?’

The thought flicked through her—half a joke, half too close to something real. Because in his own way, Damien Elford made everything feel like a challenge. Even generosity.

And still…

Why did this part bother her the most?

She sighed quietly and turned to her bowl. No more avoiding it.

She peeled back the lid and looked.

Then blinked.

Her eyes widened—just slightly.

Because what greeted her wasn’t the dreaded coriander storm or oil-drenched chaos she feared.

It was… fine.

No—better than fine.

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