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

Chapter 266: Smoother

The Selvenhardt rolled to a slow, graceful stop at the edge of Vermillion’s student drop-off loop, its engine quieting to a dignified purr before Damien shifted it into park.

Without a word, Elysia stepped out first—fluid, efficient, already scanning the surroundings as if this was a mission perimeter and not a manicured courtyard. Her black heels clicked once against the curb before falling into silence.

Damien popped the lock and opened his own door next, sliding out with the same casual ease he carried into everything else.

Isabelle followed suit, stepping down from the passenger side with her usual quiet composure. She adjusted the strap of her bag, took a breath—and then paused.

For a moment, she just stood there.

Watching him.

Damien walked a step ahead, one hand in his pocket, the other swinging slightly with each stride. His uniform blazer hung open, his tie only half-tightened like usual, but—

‘Something’s different.’

It wasn’t just the way he moved.

It was the way he felt.

Less like a slouching heir wasting time until the next scandal and more like someone quietly building momentum. His posture had shifted—not dramatic, not rigid, but… intentional. His strides felt measured, confident, not put-on.

And even his face—

‘…Is smoother?’

She couldn’t explain it. Not exactly. The angles were the same. His expression still wore that faint, default smirk. But the puffiness she remembered from last week was lessened. The skin beneath his eyes was tauter, sharper. Like he’d slept—really slept—for the first time in a long time. Or maybe—

‘No. Not sleep. Discipline.’

His jaw looked tighter. Not clenched—refined.

And then, without even glancing back—

“What are you looking at, Class Rep?”

She blinked, caught.

Immediately her eyes snapped forward, but too late. He was already turning slightly toward her, one brow arched, that lazy smirk tugging just a little wider.

“Thinking of giving me a makeover grade now?” he added, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Out of ten, I hope.”

‘Tch.’

Isabelle’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You looked worse last week.”

She blinked, caught.

Immediately her eyes snapped forward, but too late. He was already turning slightly toward her, one brow arched, that lazy smirk tugging just a little wider.

“Thinking of giving me a makeover grade now?” he added, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Out of ten, I hope.”

‘Tch.’

Isabelle’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You looked worse last week.”

Damien let out a small breath—more laugh than exhale. “Huh. That’s strangely direct, coming from you.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “Why? Isn’t this how you like it?”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Normally, yeah. I prefer clarity over riddles. Saves time.”

“Good,” Isabelle said flatly. “Because I don’t like dancing around implications.”

He gave her a satisfied little nod. “See? We’re practically aligned already.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched—barely.

They walked another few steps before she spoke again, voice light but deliberate.

“You did something this weekend.”

Damien’s expression didn’t shift, but his next words came with practiced ease.

“I did a lot of things this weekend.”

‘Too fast,’ she thought. ‘Too casual.’

“…Hmm,” Isabelle muttered, her gaze narrowing. “Suspicious.”

“What?” he asked, hand gesturing loosely. “I’m not a criminal. Why am I being gazed at like I’m under investigation?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at him—calm, steady, the kind of look that stripped away the smug and searched for whatever was underneath.

Damien held the stare for a second longer, then broke it with a shrug and an easy pivot.

“So… do you walk to school all the time?”

That made her straighten almost reflexively. Her spine aligned, shoulders squared, as if the question had knocked slightly off-rhythm.

“I do,” she said. Crisp. Automatic.

Damien stopped walking for half a beat, then turned to look at her fully.

No smirk. No teasing glint.

Just his blue eyes—sharper now, quiet in their intensity.

Focused.

And that caught her off guard more than anything he’d said so far.

‘What…?’

She looked back, brows pinched faintly, and something in her chest tugged—subtle, strange.

“I walk,” she said again, this time more measured, “because it’s good for my health. And because I feel more… balanced, when I start the day with movement.”

Her words landed somewhere between an explanation and a defense. She hated that.

But Damien just nodded, still watching her.

“Right,” he said.

Then his gaze dipped.

Brief, but not subtle.

A quick pass—from the smooth line of her legs to the crisp press of her blouse, then back to her face. And with that, his expression shifted.

That smug, glinting smirk returned—but it was different now.

Lower.

Richer.

Lecherous.

“You certainly do well in that part,” he murmured.

Isabelle’s eyes widened. Color bloomed hot across her cheeks.

‘H-He just—!’

“You—!” she snapped, glaring up at him. “Why do you speak so indecently?!”

Damien blinked once, innocent in the most infuriating way.

“What’s indecent about what I said?”

“Your gaze,” she hissed. “That’s what’s indecent.”

“Eh… Class Rep,” he said slowly, hand lifting in mock thought, “did you forget? I appreciate what’s in front of me.”

Her breath caught for a second.

Because—damn it—he had said that before. Right after the volleyball match. Same inflection. Same look. As if he was quoting his own greatest hits.

She tried to hold it in, but her lips twitched, the edges of a smirk threatening to surface.

“This is harassment,” she muttered, barely above a murmur.

Damien leaned in just slightly, eyes bright with amusement. “My eyes are harassment now? They must really be affecting you.”

She scoffed—sharp, dismissive.

But didn’t deny it.

Damien let the last thread of tension hang for a moment longer, then tilted his head slightly, letting the amusement settle into something lighter—easier.

“So,” he said, his tone slipping back into casual. “About our study meetings…”

Isabelle blinked, still cooling from the heat in her cheeks.

He continued, unbothered, “You’re the one setting the plan, right? You mentioned something about Monday.”

She nodded. “I did.”

“Then,” Damien glanced sideways at her, “today after school—are you free?”

“I am.”

“Good.”

Isabelle glanced at him again, trying to read if this was another one of his feints. But no. His expression had steadied. No teasing. Just intent.

“…We’re doing it today, then?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

He gave a small nod, as if checking a box. “Okay.”

And that was it.

No argument. No posturing. Just agreement.

They kept walking, side by side now, their footsteps falling into rhythm as the morning crowd thickened. Other students moved around them—some glancing, a few whispering—but neither of them paid much attention.

Not right now.

They reached the doors of the main academic wing, and without any need for ceremony, stepped through together. Isabelle didn’t look at him, and Damien didn’t push anything else.

But there was a quiet sort of understanding between them now.

A meeting was set. The game continued. And somehow, the air between them felt just a little more charged than it had ten minutes ago.

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