Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 287: Gesture and intentions (2)
Chapter 287: Gesture and intentions (2)
Isabelle stared at the tray, letting her eyes move slowly across the arrangement. The layout was clean, precise—unfolding like a quietly composed overture.
Steamed white rice topped with a soft-seasoned egg ribbon. Grilled tofu with crisp edges, glazed in a light citrus-soy reduction. A side of julienned vegetables—zucchini, carrot, daikon—braised until tender but not mush. And the broth, golden and clear, laced with nothing sharp or cloying. Just warm. Inviting.
Then the fruit.
Nothing showy. No sugar-soaked melon or perfumed lychee. Just apple slices. Orange segments. A small dusting of powdered plum over the edge of the bowl, like the finish to a memory.
Her throat tightened.
‘These are… all my favorites.’
The smell. The color. The restraint.
She’d never told anyone.
She hadn’t needed to.
And yet—
Her gaze shifted sideways, slowly.
To Damien.
He wasn’t eating yet.
He was watching.
Not with idle amusement. Not with that half-lidded, too-clever mask he sometimes wore in class.
He was just watching her.
Blue eyes steady. Clear.
Looking directly into her. Through her, even.
And for one moment—one clean breath—she didn’t look away.
Because in his gaze, she saw something strange.
Not lust. Not flirtation. Not performance.
Desire, yes.
But it didn’t spark alarms.
It didn’t coil her shoulders tight or send her instincts scrambling for space.
It just existed.
Like weight.
Like gravity.
Pulling—but not coercive.
Holding—but not binding.
“…How?” she murmured.
She didn’t even realize she’d spoken until the word had left her lips, soft and almost lost beneath the booth’s acoustic hush.
Damien tilted his head, just slightly.
Damien tilted his head at her question, a flicker of that familiar sly curve teasing the corner of his mouth.
“How what?” he said casually, leaning back just enough to feign confusion. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Class Rep.”
Isabelle didn’t press the original question.
She just studied him for another second—his posture, the way he didn’t blink too fast, the ease of that little smirk—and then shifted her approach.
“Why did you order these?” she asked instead, her voice quieter than usual, but steady.
He glanced down at the tray, then back at her, as if only now remembering what they were.
“These?” he echoed. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing,” she said flatly. “That’s the point.”
Damien’s brows lifted a fraction.
She kept going, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Most people order… burgers. Pizza. Carbon bowls. The stuff that fills fast and sells easy.”
He made a small noise in his throat. “Mm. True.”
“So?”
He gave a loose shrug, reaching for his utensils without rush. “I was in the mood to try something different today. Saw them on the menu. They looked decent. So I ordered.”
Isabelle didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just looked at him for a long, long second.
Because that answer—on paper—was perfectly plausible.
But it wasn’t true.
She’d seen these kinds of menus before. Places like this didn’t slap light, balanced, precision-cooked meals on the first page. These weren’t front-facing recommendations. These were tucked-away, quietly rotated options listed under “Wellness Sets” or “Digestive Light.”
You had to search for them.
You had to choose them.
And the odds that Damien Elford just happened to stumble across her entire comfort profile by accident?
Low.
Very low.
Isabelle’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharpening as they settled back on his face.
And he—of course—was watching her still.
Smiling.
Not denying anything. Not confirming either.
Just… sitting there.
At ease.
Unbothered.
Like he already knew she knew.
Isabelle tried to brush it off. She really did.
She looked back down at her food, repositioned her chopsticks, shifted the tray slightly closer—anything to reestablish the mental script she’d abandoned the moment she opened the lid. She told herself it didn’t matter. That it could still be a coincidence. That there was no point letting his nonsense get under her skin.
But it wasn’t working.
Because she couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unknow how precise it all was.
Finally, she sighed, eyes narrowing as she turned back toward him.
“Why did you choose these?” she asked, low but clear. “I’m not buying the menu excuse. Answer properly.”
Damien’s lips twitched.
Then—
He laughed.
Not loud. Not mocking. But full-bodied enough to make his shoulders rise and his eyes brighten with something dangerously close to delight.
“Out of your comfort zones,” he said, half-laughing still, “you really don’t know how to deal with things.”
“What—”
Before she could finish, he moved.
Quickly.
He leaned across the table with the same easy grace he used when dodging responsibility in class—but this time, it was aimed entirely at her.
Her breath hitched, instincts sparking, but she was too slow—
His hand reached for her ear.
“—!”
She immediately slapped up at his arm on reflex, sharp and fast, but Damien just chuckled again and pulled back—
Holding something between his fingers.
A small, nearly invisible tag.
A tracking sticker.
Isabelle froze.
He spun it once between his fingers, letting the soft light from the interface catch the reflective edge.
“When I do something like this…” he said, leaning back just enough to watch her reaction unfold, “you always respond like that. Fast. Sharp. Immediate. It’s kind of impressive, actually.”
Isabelle glared at him, her pulse still taut with leftover reflex.
“Don’t play games with me,” she snapped, voice low. “How did you know I’d like these?”
Damien grinned. “How did I know?”
He tilted his head, then gestured casually—like the answer had always been there.
“Rep, we’ve been eating together for month. In the classroom, remember?”
Her brows furrowed, and then—
She did remember.
Lunch breaks. Long, quiet afternoons where they both brought meals from home. She sat on one end of the table, him on the other. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they didn’t. But he was always there. And she had always brought her own food. Never ordered out. Never traded.
“And it’s not hard to see what someone’s eating,” Damien continued smoothly, “especially when your spices are kind of… authentic.”
He made a vague swirling gesture, mimicking the scent trail of one of her usual herb blends.
“And,” he added, “you never touched the cafeteria stuff. Not even once. If you liked popular food, you’d have at least tried the curry wraps or fried skewers by now.”
Isabelle stared.
“And let’s be honest,” Damien finished, resting his hand back on the edge of the table, “you always eat clean. You separate flavors. Nothing heavy. Nothing processed. I could see it plain as day. So yeah—picky eater. Obvious, once you look.”
Obvious.
She looked down at the meal again, then back at him.
‘So he… was really watching?’
Not in the intrusive way. Not creeping or hovering. But simply… paying attention.
To the details.
To her.
Damien picked up a piece of grilled fish from his tray with an easy flick of his chopsticks, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite—still watching her over the edge of his meal like she was the only thing in the room worth focusing on.
And somehow, that gaze had shifted again.
Not sharp.
Not teasing.
Just… precise.
Intent.
“I pay attention to those that I want,” he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.
Isabelle blinked.
Her breath caught—but not in fear. Not in uncertainty either.
Just that tight, humming pause before something inevitable lands.
“…Those you want?” she echoed, the words slipping out quieter than intended.
Damien finished chewing, set his chopsticks down with a clean, deliberate motion, then leaned forward.
“Again, Rep,” he said, voice lower now. Steady. “Didn’t I make my intentions clear before?”
He reached out—slowly, not pushing—and tapped a finger lightly against the tip of her nose.
“You’ll be mine.”
Source: Webnovel.com, updated by novlove.com
