Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 195: Announced

They ate in silence for a while—only the soft clicks of chopsticks and the distant echo of footsteps from the corridor filling the room. The tension from earlier had faded into something else now, something subtler. Calmer. A kind of rhythm.

But Isabelle's mind wasn't quiet.

She glanced at Damien, who seemed perfectly at ease with his meal, and then back down at her own lunch. Her voice came quieter this time, the edge of challenge blunted by something closer to genuine curiosity.

"…Are you really serious about becoming my study partner?"

Damien didn't look surprised by the question. He didn't even pause. He just continued eating for a few more seconds, finishing a bite before speaking.

"Yeah," he said simply.

She frowned, brows knitting. "I still don't understand why you'd want that."

This time, he did look at her.

His gaze wasn't sharp or cocky—not the usual smirk that made her want to throw something across the room. It was softer. Studying her. As if he was searching for something behind her words.

Then—

"Can't you think of a reason?" he asked, voice low. "Or are you just pretending not to?"

Isabelle's lips parted slightly.

Her heart gave a quiet, traitorous thump.

He said it like it was obvious.

Like she already knew.

"…Well?" he prompted, still looking at her. Not pressing. Just waiting.

She looked away, back down to the half-eaten rice in her lunchbox.

"I can think of a reason," she murmured, so soft it barely carried across the desk. "But I don't want to believe it."

Damien didn't push. He just asked—gently, "Why?"

The question hung there.

Isabelle swallowed once. Her fingers tightened slightly around her chopsticks.

"…Because I…"

She stopped.

Damien leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, voice barely above a whisper now.

"You…?"

Her lips pressed into a line. Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

And for one suspended second, the air between them felt too still—like the world was waiting.

She took in the look on his face. The calm certainty. The utter lack of games.

And suddenly… the question didn't feel like a joke anymore.

Isabelle's chopsticks hovered above her lunch, forgotten. Her thoughts had drifted far from the rice and vegetables in front of her.

Because I…

The words refused to complete themselves in her mind.

Not because she didn't know how they ended—but because she didn't want to hear herself say them.

She looked at Damien again. He was watching her, quiet, patient. Not smirking, not smug. Just… waiting. And that made it worse somehow. The way he didn't press her, didn't joke about it. Like he knew this was something she had to come to on her own.

Her mind turned over the pieces again.

Why would he want to be her study partner? Why go through all of this trouble—this exam, this effort, this sudden and aggressive motivation to change—just for something as mundane as that?

And then she remembered.

The bet hadn't started with study sessions.

It had started with something else.

"If I win… you'll be my girlfriend."

Her chopsticks lowered slowly.

She hadn't forgotten those words. Of course she hadn't. She had brushed them off, ridiculed the suggestion, changed the terms herself. She had told herself it was just another one of Damien's provocations—a joke, a test, a way to get under her skin.

But what if it wasn't?

What if that was the point all along?

She thought back to those first interactions. To how rarely they had spoken before this semester. She had barely spared him more than the standard disciplinary warnings. He was just another underperforming student with a lazy streak and an inflated name.

So why her?

Why start anything with her?

That's what she couldn't understand.

And now, as she sat here eating beside him—something they had done quietly, habitually, without ever labeling it—she realized just how many moments had led up to this strange tension between them. Moments she had dismissed. Conversations she had filed away as banter. Glances that lingered too long.

"Can't you think of a reason?"

He had asked her that as if the answer were obvious.

But it wasn't. Not to her.

Because the Isabelle from before—the girl who had climbed her way from a countryside school to this elite academy through raw discipline and calculation—didn't believe in reasons like that. Not when they didn't follow logic. Not when they didn't come with a trail of evidence to examine.

Why her?

She had heard it all before.

The whispers in back corners of the library. The quiet rumors passed between girls on scholarship. Stories about how rich boys—sons of conglomerates, dukes, board chairmen—liked to "take an interest" in girls like her. The hard-working types. The ones with sharp eyes and upright spines. The ones who didn't chase them, and therefore seemed interesting.

She herself had experienced it—twice in her first year. Both times with the same kind of smile, the same underlying tone.

Like they were offering her something.

"You're different."

"You don't act like the others."

"It's refreshing, honestly."

But what they really meant was: "You're not from here, and you're lucky I noticed you."

And that's why her instincts had always recoiled at the idea of someone like Damien Elford showing interest in her. A rich boy, lounging on his name, coasting off legacy—she had seen it before. And the idea that he might be one of them, circling closer each day, laughing beside her, eating next to her, watching her…

It should've made sense.

But it didn't.

Because the others had never done this much.

The others hadn't changed for her.

The others hadn't trained, hadn't studied, hadn't stood before the entire class, bloodied and mocked and still unflinching, just to keep a promise he'd made to her.

They had approached with the quiet arrogance of nobles offering favor to commoners.

But Damien had never once spoken like she owed him something.

Not once.

Which meant…

Her eyes flicked sideways.

He was still watching her.

Still lounging, half-finished with his bento, that lazy, unreadable look on his face—but not entirely unserious. There was something beneath it. Something expectant.

And then he spoke, voice low and teasing, but laced with that thread of curiosity that always cut through his jokes.

"Rep," Damien said, "you're lost in your thoughts again."

He tilted his head slightly, resting his cheek against his knuckles, those blue eyes narrowing just enough to glint.

"If you can't answer," he murmured, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth, "should I fill in the blanks on my own?"

Damien grinned, head tilting just enough to suggest mischief without pushing too far. "Careful, Class Rep," he said lightly. "If you stay quiet like that, I might get ahead of myself."

He shifted his fingers slightly on the desk—then, without warning, extended his hand just enough to brush the back of hers. Barely a touch. A whisper of contact.

But it was enough.

Isabelle flinched.

Her hand retracted instantly, like he'd burned her. Her eyes widened for a split second, the sharp snap of instinct overriding her usual composure.

"What are—"

But Damien cut in smoothly, his voice lower now, but not unkind. "Like this," he murmured, his fingers settling back on his own desk, "I might assume you wouldn't mind things like that. You see what happens when you leave too many blanks?" His gaze didn't waver. "To deal with a guy like me, Rep… you have to be clear. Open."

Her glare was immediate.

"Shut up," she snapped, the heat returning to her tone. "Just because I didn't answer doesn't mean you can touch me." Her voice dropped, colder now. "Do you do this to everyone? Are you a harasser or something?"

That made Damien pause.

And then he let out a low breath, shaking his head once—almost like he was disappointed. Not in her. In the accusation.

"You wound me…."