Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 276: This…

She sat still for a moment—quiet, untouched bite on her tray, hands resting loosely on the table’s edge.

The sound of laughter moved around her. Madeleine teasing Aaron about his cake hoarding. Chessa and Rin play-bickering over the sugar content in the drinks. Damien wiping frosting from his thumb like it was some kind of violation of his aesthetic principles.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic.

But it was warm.

And Isabelle felt… strange.

Not bad. Not uncomfortable. Just—

’…Refreshed?’

The word drifted in and settled oddly.

It didn’t quite fit. Not the way she usually defined things. Refreshment came from efficiency. From order. From closing a tab in her schedule. A perfect mark. A flawless answer.

But this—

This was laughter she hadn’t predicted.

Smiles she hadn’t scheduled.

People drifting into her space—not with demands or obligations, but with good-natured presence. Chaos, yes, but tempered. Light. Natural.

And she hadn’t been the one to organize it.

’They… really came.’

Not just the girls who’d dragged her out of her seat.

The boys too. Aaron. Rin. Lionel.

None of them owed her anything. They barely even talked to her outside of class routines. And yet they came—joking, teasing, congratulating—not because it was expected, but because it mattered to them.

Because she mattered.

Not as an academic metric. Not as the iron-spined Class Rep.

But as Isabelle.

And it unsettled something quiet in her chest.

’Is this what… normal feels like?’

The realization bloomed slow and reluctant.

Because for years, she’d armored herself in discipline. Worn performance like a second skin. Excellence was her shield—proof she belonged, proof she couldn’t be pushed aside, proof that no one had to take care of her because she took care of everything.

But this…

This wasn’t armor.

This was… light.

And she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Across the table, Damien caught her eye—just briefly. No words. Just that maddeningly perceptive look again, like he saw the equation changing behind her eyes.

Isabelle turned her gaze down to her tray.

Picked up her chopsticks again.

Ate in silence.

But inside her?

Something was beginning to shift.

*****

The hum of laughter still lingered, a soft cloud of contentment settled around the garden-wall table. Forks clinked against near-empty trays, and Aaron was halfway into an overly dramatic recount of how he nearly dropped the coffee tray “in the line of celebratory duty.”

That’s when Isabelle checked the time.

And the mood shifted.

She cleared her throat—just once. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“Lunch break ends in three minutes.”

Five pairs of eyes turned toward her in varying degrees of disbelief and mild betrayal.

Aaron groaned immediately. “Rep, don’t do this.”

“We just got to the good part,” Rin added, his whipped coffee still half-full.

Madeleine slumped back in her seat. “Let us have one full conversation without a time warning.”

Chessa muttered, “Party pooper…”

But Isabelle was already standing, her tray perfectly stacked, her bottle recapped, expression perfectly composed.

“We’re still expected in afternoon block. Punctuality is mandatory.”

Miri sighed, quietly amused. “There she is.”

The others rose one by one, still grumbling good-naturedly. Someone muttered something about “the iron fist of Moreau,” and Chessa threw one last forkful of frosting into her mouth like it was a protest offering.

Within a minute, the table was emptying. The laughter gave way to movement, trays being cleared, chairs pushed in.

And Damien?

He stayed a beat longer.

He stood without hurry, picking up his tray with one hand, already turning toward the payment counter.

Not that he needed to.

But he said he would.

And unlike most of the class, when Damien Elford promised something—even casually—he followed through.

Isabelle watched him go, already halfway to the counter, his pace unhurried, posture relaxed.

She didn’t mean to follow.

But her legs moved anyway.

Quiet. Steady.

Not too close.

Just close enough to catch up without announcing it.

He handed over his ID with his usual ease, exchanging a brief word with the cashier, nodding once as the transaction processed. The clerk offered a small bow—half out of habit, half out of recognition.

He turned as he finished, eyes catching hers before she could look away.

Damien caught her eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging upward—wry, unreadable.

“Rep?” he said, voice low and amused. “What are you looking at?”

Isabelle didn’t flinch. Her expression remained smooth, impassive.

“I’m here to make sure you actually paid.”

He let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Come on now… do you really think I’m that kind of person?”

“You never know,” she replied, gaze flicking to the counter. “Some people say a lot of things.”

He looked at her for a second longer, studying the tight set of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled loosely by her side. Then he shrugged—light, unbothered.

“That is…”

A smile edged into his voice. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Just let the silence carry it.

Then, quietly:

“I guess… slowly, you’ll learn.”

He stepped past her, heading for the door, his stride measured. Not rushed. Just enough pace to say we’re done here.

Isabelle stood there, lips parting.

She wanted to say something.

Her mouth opened—

Then closed.

She turned slightly, hesitated again. A breath caught in her throat, unsaid words pressing forward like a tide behind a dam.

Then—

“Oi! You two leaving us behind?”

Madeleine’s voice rang out, followed by the clatter of fast steps. Chessa and Miri rounded the corner just behind her, trays already returned, chatter spilling freely again.

Isabelle froze.

The moment broke.

She straightened, eyes forward, mask back in place before they reached her.

And Damien?

He didn’t look back.

But his smirk lingered.

*****

The group moved down the corridor at a relaxed pace, the soft buzz of afternoon light filtering through the high windows. Their footsteps echoed gently, matched in rhythm but scattered in focus.

The girls were talking—voices blending, overlapping, spinning from one topic to the next.

“…but I swear she got that bag just because Jessa had it first,” Madeleine was saying, hands gesturing like she was painting a crime scene.

“No, no, it’s totally a dupe,” Chessa added. “You can tell from the stitching.”

“She’s been copying outfits all term,” Miri murmured, half-apologetic, half-intrigued. “I mean, have you seen her hair this week?”

“Intentional,” Madeleine confirmed.

Damien walked just behind them, hands in his pockets, half-listening.

Or trying to.

He wasn’t made for this terrain—fabric comparisons, drama updates, the subtle hierarchy of hair clips. He caught phrases like matte gloss disaster and tulle explosion, and felt like he was navigating a jungle with no map.

Not unpleasant, necessarily.

Just… foreign.

Still, he kept pace. Silent, observant, expression unreadable except for the faintly resigned tilt to his brow.

Then—

Something shifted.

A flicker in his gut. Not panic. Not adrenaline. Just a subtle tightening of focus, the sensation of being watched—that low, instinctive whisper that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He turned his head.

And there—across the intersecting hallway just past the locker alcove—

A pair of emerald eyes.

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