Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 290: Whatever

Chapter 290: Whatever

After their plates were cleared—automatically whisked away by the table’s built-in service system—and the surface reset to its original interface, the soft ambient lighting adjusted itself back to study mode.

The map projection returned.

Lesson folders reopened with quiet precision, and the smooth blue glow of geographical overlays filled the space between them once more.

Isabelle straightened her posture, eyes returning to the timeline she’d last highlighted. She didn’t speak immediately. She didn’t have to. The material was there. Waiting. The flow she’d carefully structured before the meal snapped back into place like it had never been interrupted.

And to her quiet surprise—Damien followed.

No snide remarks. No teasing interruptions.

He simply leaned back into his seat again, fingers scrolling through his synced tablet. Highlighted keywords. Added his own notes. Occasionally tilted the screen to match hers when something didn’t align.

It was… seamless.

And oddly?

Comfortable.

She hadn’t expected that.

Isabelle had always studied alone. Not just because she preferred efficiency, but because the noise—the constant tapping, humming, breathing of others—tended to fray her concentration. She’d assumed, naturally, that being here with Damien in this capsule-booth, in such tight quarters, would only amplify that feeling. That he’d be a distraction. That his very presence would knock her rhythm sideways.

But he didn’t.

He matched her tempo.

Respected the silence between their bursts of discussion.

When she activated the twenty-minute timer—her usual pacing method—he didn’t complain. Didn’t scoff. Just nodded. And when it rang, he’d tilt his tablet slightly, look over, and ask a single question.

Relevant.

Concise.

Sometimes, insightful.

It threw her off the first time. But only slightly.

By the second timer, it was… normal.

’Huh,’ she thought, midway through outlining the trade collapse post-Fracture War. ’This is actually… working.’

Not perfect. Not frictionless.

But not uncomfortable either.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t try to catch her gaze between slides. He didn’t use her focus as a wedge for more flirtation. It was like they’d entered a quiet understanding: for now, they were here to study. The rest—whatever that was—could wait.

And strangely, that boundary felt respected.

The timer blinked softly, signaling another twenty-minute interval complete.

Isabelle tapped the alert away with practiced ease, and just as she adjusted her view to return to the trade routes map, she heard Damien’s voice break the silence.

“So,” he said, dragging the word slightly, “about the way cell differentiation happens during embryonic development… why the hell does it start with the mesoderm again?”

Isabelle blinked.

She turned, eyebrows raised. The geography map faded behind her focus.

Damien’s tablet now displayed a completely different interface—his notes had shifted, and she could see the clean page sectioned into biology modules. Molecular biology. Human anatomy. Developmental sequences.

He’d switched tracks. Social sciences were done. Now it was science.

And more specifically—biology.

’Right,’ she thought. ’We scheduled the switch two hours in.’

Even now, he was following it.

Isabelle gave him a once-over. His brows were drawn together in actual thought, his stylus lazily twirling between his fingers as he skimmed a diagram labeled “Gastrulation Phase.”

“Mesoderm doesn’t start everything,” she said, correcting him gently but firmly. “It’s one of the three primary germ layers. The process starts with the ectoderm forming the neural plate. Mesoderm follows and gives rise to muscles, bones, the circulatory system…”

She trailed off slightly, narrowing her eyes. “You read the sequence wrong.”

Damien grunted. “Figures. This diagram is a mess. Who designs biology visuals in pastel gradients, anyway?”

Isabelle leaned over slightly—closer than she normally would—but enough to see his screen.

She frowned. “That’s a cafeteria-level infographic. Where’d you even get that?”

Damien gave a small, theatrical cough.

“Search engine,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.

Isabelle shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

But she didn’t say it with disdain. More like a weary teacher dealing with an overconfident student who forgot his calculator.

Still leaning over, she tapped his screen, closing the pastel mess and pulling up the annotated diagram she’d given him. “Read this. Start with the ectoderm, then follow the development order. The neural plate first, then the notochord from the mesoderm, then the rest.”

She glanced at him, saw him watching the diagram, brows drawing inward as if the parts were finally starting to click. Then she eased back into her seat, straightened her own notes, and returned to her tab on chemical energy systems.

But something lingered.

As she flipped through her slides, her mind replayed what she’d just explained. Not out of annoyance, but clarity. It stuck now—firmer than before. The process, the sequence, the definitions—it all felt more structured, cleaner.

’That’s odd…’ she thought. ’Explaining it to him made it settle better in my head too.’

The realization was small but steady.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad system after all.

******

Just like that, the hours began to slip past.

The timer pinged softly at regular intervals, and each time it did, Isabelle felt less disrupted by it. Less pulled from her focus. The rhythm had settled—quiet, effective, and strangely cooperative. She studied. Damien studied. Occasionally he asked something. Occasionally she corrected him. Once, he caught her spelling mistake, and she grumbled more than she needed to, but secretly appreciated it.

It was… balanced.

But eventually, the interface dimmed subtly, the soft blue of the background grid shifting into a cooler gradient.

Isabelle glanced at the top corner of her tablet and blinked.

“…It’s late,” she said, sitting up straighter. “We’ve been here for over four hours.”

Damien raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the time himself.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He stood, stretching his arms above his head with a soft groan. “Oof… Sitting here for long like this, I feel strangely sore.”

She gave him a dry look. “Maybe because you don’t study often?”

He grinned, rolling his shoulders. “Ahah… Maybe because I’m next to you?”

“Stop with the strange words,” she said flatly, already packing her tablet away.

“…Mhmm…” he hummed with his classic face.

But he moved when she did, packed his things when she did. No delay. No pushing the mood.

As they stepped out of the booth, the hallway beyond had dimmed slightly into a more relaxed tone—soft floor lights and ambient instrumental playing gently over the soundscape. Isabelle adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder and glanced down the corridor.

A few other students were exiting similar study booths. Some looked drained, others chatty, but nearly all of them made a beeline for the counter up ahead, where a sleek digital register awaited. One after another, they tapped their devices against the panel and confirmed payment with quiet chimes.

Isabelle’s steps slowed slightly.

’Right… there’s a fee.’

She’d forgotten.

Completely.

The novelty of the space, the smoothness of the tools, the quiet… it had wrapped itself around her so cleanly that the practicalities had slipped her mind. And now, watching others settle their bills, she felt the familiar nudge of reality begin to press against her ribs.

’Of course there’s a fee,’ she thought. ’This isn’t a school library. This is premium space.’

She glanced at Damien.

He hadn’t said a word. Just kept walking beside her with that usual nonchalance. But that made it worse, somehow—because she could already picture it. Him stepping forward, tapping his wrist or his card or whatever luxury credential he had and paying for both without asking.

And then it would be done.

No discussion.

No protest.

She didn’t want that.

Not again.

’You’re not here to be maintained,’ she told herself. ’You’re not here to sit back and let someone else carry the weight.’

Even if it stung a little. Even if she’d have to go tight for the rest of the week. Or borrow a little—just enough—from home.

It wasn’t pride. Not entirely.

It was about not feeling like a tagalong. A dependent. A silent, smiling passenger on someone else’s ride.

She’d come here, enjoyed the space, used the services. Now it was time to own that choice.

No matter the cost.

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