Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 289: Gesture and intentions (4)

Chapter 289: Gesture and intentions (4)

“You did,” she muttered. He tilted his head slightly. “Exactly. So yes, Rep—I get a little reckless. I push. But I listen.”

And that, she realized, was the difference.

He pushed until she said no.

Then he stopped.

Isabelle’s lips pressed into a thin line.

’This could still be a tactic,’ she thought. The idea didn’t come with venom, but it clung in the back of her mind like a film she couldn’t scrape clean. She’d read about it. Heard about it. Those who pushed just enough to test boundaries—pulling back when warned, earning trust, then pushing again. A rhythm. A manipulation dressed as patience.

Playboys did that.

The good ones didn’t just corner you. They paced you.

And Damien…

She couldn’t say for sure he wasn’t capable of that.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, gauging his posture, his tone, the calm certainty in his expression. He was relaxed. Unfazed. But not indifferent. That was the part that unsettled her.

He wasn’t rushing.

And somehow, that made it harder to pin down his angle.

Damien, watching her think, exhaled softly through his nose. A half-laugh, low and almost resigned.

“To you,” he said, voice quieter now, “these things don’t make much sense, do they?”

She glanced at him, not answering.

He didn’t seem to mind.

Damien leaned back a fraction, eyes still trained on her with that same calm clarity. No gloating. No mock bravado. Just… quiet ease.

“I’m okay with this,” he said. “I don’t mind if you don’t believe me. Not yet.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even persuasive. It was simply… patient. Unshaken.

Like someone used to waiting for storms to break on their own.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. Not because he sounded confident—but because he sounded certain.

He smiled again. That slow, tilted grin that came with no sharp corners.

Then—like before—he reached forward, casually, aiming another light press against the tip of her nose.

This time, her hand snapped up and smacked his finger aside.

Damien let out a short laugh, shaking his hand like she’d actually managed to sting it. “Oof. Cold.”

She glared. Not full-force. But enough to warn.

Still, he didn’t stop smiling. If anything, the grin deepened, more amused than wounded.

“I gotta say,” he mused, rubbing the back of his knuckles with mock tenderness, “your reactions are one of my favorite parts of this whole thing.”

“’This whole thing’?” Isabelle echoed flatly.

“The process,” he said, unfazed. “Watching you sort through what you feel. Watching you realize your heart isn’t on lockdown the way you think it is.”

Isabelle’s eyes narrowed into a sharp line. Her lips parted, a breath caught between indignation and disbelief.

’This guy—’

She didn’t even finish the thought.

Damien wasn’t just confident. He was presumptive. The kind of man who walked into a bet with a losing hand and still claimed victory like it was a matter of time.

That certainty—that assumption—it burned like slow coal beneath her ribs.

’I haven’t said anything,’ she thought. ’I haven’t agreed to anything. And he’s acting like it’s already done.’

It was arrogant.

It was maddening.

It was… effective.

Because despite every defense she’d built—every smart, skeptical, rational barrier she’d constructed—he hadn’t forced a single one down.

He was just… waiting.

Knowing she’d lower them herself.

And somehow, that infuriated her more than anything else.

*****

Damien sat back in his chair, one arm slung over the edge, watching Isabelle with a bemused stillness. Her reactions had a rhythm all their own—tight, calculated, then suddenly offbeat, like her mind kept tripping over its own discipline. It was entertaining. Almost nostalgic.

’God, she reminds me of Erin.’

He hadn’t thought about her in quite a while. Back on Earth—back when his life still resembled something normal.

Erin: the girl who always sat two rows ahead, posture perfect, always correcting teachers with that dry, clinical precision. Always pretending like her heart was locked in some vault no one could touch.

And yet, she’d looked at him with that same stunned disbelief once.

Back when he’d caught her watching him from across the hallway, notebook clutched like a shield, eyes flicking away too fast. Back when things had just begun to shift between them—too soft, too tentative.

’It didn’t go anywhere,’ Damien thought, fingers tapping idly against the tabletop. ’Didn’t get the chance.’

He remembered the hospital. The smell. The way the light hit that beige wall. The hollow buzz of machines. He’d been admitted just before anything could happen—before her curiosity could tip over into something more. She’d sent messages, once or twice. He never replied.

’Bad timing. Worse body.’

Now?

Now he had a different shot. And Isabelle…

Isabelle wasn’t Erin. She was sharper. More defensive. But that made it more fun.

’She’s trying so hard to box me in,’ he mused, smirking faintly as he watched her poke at her food like it might bite. ’Trying to rationalize everything. Like there’s a flowchart that explains me.’

She couldn’t figure out whether to be impressed or suspicious. Every time he leaned in, she flinched mentally—then held still, like it was a test.

’And the best part?’

He leaned slightly closer, elbow braced against the armrest.

’She hasn’t walked away.’

Damien watched her from across the table, letting the quiet spool between them like thread on a loom. She was still eating—but slower now, more composed. Not from hesitation, not anymore. But something else.

Awareness.

’She’s clocked the shift,’ he thought, watching the subtle way her brows had settled into that focused furrow she wore during debates. ’She knows this isn’t a game anymore.’

And that was the irony, wasn’t it?

A girl like Isabelle Moreau—the type who carved her way forward on merit alone, no favors, no safety net—she didn’t tolerate distractions. Especially not ones shaped like him.

He’d seen her type before. Not just here, in the Academy’s glass towers and lecture halls—but back on Earth. In corners of classrooms, nose buried in books, spine straight like it held up the ceiling. Girls who learned early that politeness was a weakness. That too much warmth got mistaken for availability.

’She’s turned down guys like me before,’ Damien thought, leaning back slightly. ’Probably a dozen times over.’

And not just any guys. The polished ones. The ones with name-brand cologne and silk-lined arrogance. The ones who thought paying a bill or flashing a hovercard gave them access.

Old Damien….He’d met those bastards. Sat beside them in smoke-glass lounges, watched them play their game of “guess her threshold” like it was a sport.

And back then, the old Damien was a spineless dog after all.

’Not anymore.’

When he’d asked her—that question, that edge-laced truth about whether she thought he chased her for how she looked or how little protection her background gave her—he saw it. Not outrage. Not scorn.

Recognition.

Just for a flicker.

’Yeah,’ Damien thought. ’She’s had someone try to price-tag her before.’

He knew the signs. The way her throat tightened, the way her shoulders drew back like she was measuring the air for threats. The way her silence wasn’t just processing—but protecting.

’And she still showed up today. Still sat down across from me. Still ate the food I picked.’

Damien’s gaze lingered on her for a beat longer. Her posture had relaxed now, just a little—enough to tell him she wasn’t on edge anymore. Not completely. That was trust, in pieces.

’If that’s not a sign,’ he thought, ’then what the hell is?’

Because girls like her didn’t give out second chances. They didn’t hand over time unless it meant something. And they sure as hell didn’t sit through a meal someone else paid for if they felt cornered.

This?

This was progress.

Not flashy, not loud. But real.

And it meant only one thing.

’I’m on the right path,’ Damien thought, smirking faintly. ’No matter how long it takes, she’ll admit it. Just like I’m doing now—she’ll get there.’

He could feel it. Not as arrogance. But certainty. A quiet, bone-deep rhythm. It was all lining up. Her reactions, her hesitations, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching—like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t expected to care about.

And god, he couldn’t wait for that moment. The moment she’d finally give voice to what was already simmering under her skin.

But—

“Are you listening?”

Her voice cut in, sharp and clean, slicing straight through the edges of his daydream.

Damien blinked.

He turned slightly, met her narrowed gaze. Her glasses had slid a little down the bridge of her nose, just enough to show the faint gleam of suspicion in her eyes.

Her lips were set in a subtle pout—unintentional, he could tell. She probably didn’t even realize she did it when annoyed.

And fuck, it made her even cuter.

He wanted to reach across and tug her nose again. Just once. See how red it’d turn when she flushed.

But no.

Not today.

He’d already touched her twice. Playfully, sure—but it added up. Pacing mattered. He didn’t want her to retreat.

’Slowly,’ Damien reminded himself, folding one hand under his chin with a grin he didn’t bother hiding.

“Sorry, Rep,” he said, voice smooth. “I got distracted. Your lecture voice’s a little… soothing.”

Her brow twitched.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Sure.”

And he smiled wider.

Because she hadn’t looked away.

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