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

Chapter 272: All on me (2)

“It’s all on me today.”

The words landed like a quiet thunderclap.

Isabelle froze. Madeleine blinked. Miri made a faint surprised noise. Chessa looked immediately suspicious.

“…What?” Madeleine asked.

Damien didn’t flinch. “Celebration, right? I’m part of the group now. Let me handle it.”

“…You’re paying for all of us?” Chessa asked, half-incredulous.

Damien just shrugged again, easy and relaxed. “Yeah. Celebration tax. I barged in, didn’t I? It’s only right.”

Madeleine tilted her head. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Damien said with a grin. “That’s why it counts.”

Isabelle’s lips pressed into a firm line. The unease she’d pushed down earlier came rushing back—twice as fast, twice as loud.

’No.’

It wasn’t just the money.

It was the implication. The imbalance. The feeling of being someone’s responsibility.

She stepped forward, voice low and even. “I can pay for myself.”

Damien turned to look at her, his expression still calm, but there was something gentler under it now—like he knew this was coming.

And he just waved a hand.

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“I know,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I intruded on your group, didn’t I? So consider it a penalty. Or a participation fee.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to argue, but he was already moving. Smoothly, quickly—cutting past the rest of them, striding to the front of the counter before another word could form.

Damien stood casually before the counter, balancing his tray with one hand and tapping the surface lightly with the other.

“Put everyone’s on my name,” he said smoothly. “I’ll pay after we eat.”

The cafeteria clerk blinked. “Payment must be made upfront, sir.”

There was no irritation in Damien’s face. No sign of frustration.

Just a slow smile that slid into place with practiced ease.

“Damien Elford,” he said, voice calm, almost bored. “I hold onto my promises. Isn’t that right?”

His hand lifted slightly in a lazy wave, as if brushing away the minor inconvenience.

“If anything troubles you,” he added, tone as mild as ever, “I’ll talk with Vice Head Galen.”

The name dropped like a stone into still water.

The clerk hesitated—only for a breath—but that was enough.

She glanced once at the scanner, then back at him.

“…Understood,” she said quietly. “Go ahead.”

Damien offered her a small, courteous nod—no gloating, no extra flair—and turned back toward the others.

“Okay,” he said, walking up to them, “what are you waiting for?”

Madeleine let out a loud exhale, almost a laugh. “Showoff.”

Chessa smirked. “You’re so extra, Elford.”

Miri giggled behind her hand. “That was seriously dramatic.”

Damien just waved them off like he was brushing away lint. “You wanted a celebration. I gave it some flair.”

But Isabelle—

She didn’t move at first.

Her tray was still in her hands, perfectly balanced, untouched.

And inside her, something was coiling uncomfortably tight.

’He shouldn’t do things like that.’

Her tray was still in her hands.

Balanced. Pristine. Unbitten.

And her jaw—tense.

It wasn’t just the gesture. It wasn’t even the bypassing of her refusal.

It was the feeling.

Of owing.

She didn’t like being indebted to anyone. Not her friends. Not acquaintances. And especially not Damien Elford.

It didn’t matter that he was calm. Or smooth. Or clever with how he handled it.

’He’s still showing off.’

Maybe not for attention. But for control. For presence. That little glint of calculated confidence she kept seeing in him—it wasn’t just casual.

It was deliberate.

And just as she tried to settle that frustration into composure, she felt a presence at her side—closer than expected.

Too close.

“I got you covered,” Damien’s voice murmured, low and quiet, breath just brushing her ear. “When you’re with me, don’t trouble yourself with topics like that.”

Isabelle flinched.

Not dramatically—but sharply enough that her fingers nearly slipped on the tray. Her eyes snapped to her right, heat flaring in her chest.

Because she hadn’t heard him come close.

Hadn’t sensed it.

And now he was at her ear?

Her gaze locked onto his, a cold glare blooming behind a faint tinge of pink rising in her cheeks.

She stared, silent, but the air between them prickled.

And Damien?

He just met her glare with that maddening ease—unbothered, unreadable.

Then turned and walked off, toward the meal counter to grab his own food. Calm. Casual. Like he hadn’t just whispered a line that threw her balance into chaos.

Isabelle stood still, the weight of the tray suddenly feeling heavier in her hands.

’That…’

Her chest tightened.

’That was not okay.’

And yet—she was still standing there.

Holding her tray.

Flushed, flustered, and fuming.

And somehow, beneath all that—

A small part of her couldn’t stop replaying the tone of his voice.

*****

Damien sat back slightly, one arm draped over the back of his chair as the soft clatter of trays and low hum of conversation buzzed around them. The group was settled now—Madeleine already halfway through her third pastry, Chessa launching into some story involving an exploding soda can, and Miri trying to stifle giggles behind her juice box.

But Damien wasn’t really listening.

Not entirely.

His eyes kept drifting.

To her.

Isabelle Moreau. The ever-dignified, ever-poised, infuriatingly self-reliant Class Rep.

Currently attempting to eat her grilled greens like they were some form of punishment.

She wasn’t making eye contact. Not with him. Not with anyone, really. But that was fine. He didn’t need her to.

He could read her just fine like this.

A subtle pinch in her brow. The controlled pace of her chopsticks. The fact that she hadn’t spoken a single word since they sat down.

Still flustered.

Still chewing on the fact that he’d swept in, disrupted her perfectly calculated cost-benefit lunch plan, and whispered straight past her defenses.

A quiet grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

’This class rep of mine… is quite cute when she’s flustered.’

The thought came easy, amused and warm and wholly unrepentant.

Most people didn’t get under her skin. He’d seen her in class, in meetings, in god-awful student council debates—calm, precise, even cold. Like a machine with straight-backed posture and a rejection form pre-filled in her head.

But when you blindside her—when you hit her with something she didn’t script for?

That calm cracked.

Not in big ways. Not publicly. Never that.

But in the little things.

Like the sharp way she tucked her hair behind her ear just now. Or how her leg had been bouncing under the table for the last three minutes, even though her face looked perfectly unreadable.

Damien leaned in a bit, just enough to catch her eye across the table.

She noticed.

Of course she did.

Her gaze flicked up, wary and narrow. Like she was daring him to speak.

He didn’t.

He just held the stare for half a second longer than he should’ve, let that same crooked smirk slip back onto his lips—

And then looked away, casually reaching for his drink.

No need to push.

Not yet.

He took a slow sip, letting the cool water slide down his throat as the noise around the table blurred into a kind of background hum. Madeleine was still rambling. Chessa made some cutting joke that earned a sharp laugh. Miri smiled at all the right beats.

But Isabelle—

Isabelle was still stuck on him.

Oh, she was trying to pretend otherwise. Her gaze drifted across the cafeteria like she was watching the exits, calculating the distance, maybe counting how many days until midterms. But the truth was sitting in her shoulders. In the way she hadn’t taken another bite. In the little glance she’d given him—not annoyed, not disdainful.

Curious.

Caught.

Damien tapped his fingers lightly against the table’s edge, an idle rhythm. His grin was gone now, but that look—that slow, steady amusement—still lingered in his eyes.

No need to be reckless.

No lines today.

No power plays.

He was already winning.

Because this wasn’t about proving anything. Wasn’t about breaking her walls all at once.

It was about presence.

Consistency.

Making her used to him. Then addicted.

’She’s got defenses,’ he thought, watching as she finally started eating again—slow, cautious movements, like she had to remind herself the food wasn’t part of a negotiation. ’High ones. Reinforced. Every inch of her built to resist distraction.’

He exhaled softly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

’Too bad for her… I’m not a distraction.’

Not a flash. Not a passing joke. Not some mistake she could bury under logic and routine.

He was going to be part of her world. One quiet piece at a time.

And when she finally looked up one day and realized just how deep he’d settled—

Well.

He wouldn’t need to say anything.

She’d already know.

’I can’t wait for the study sessions.’

The thought was smug, but not cruel.

Because he wouldn’t be pulling her down.

He’d be pulling her in.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Until even she couldn’t deny it anymore.

Damien leaned back slightly, let the conversation float around him again, let the table’s rhythm carry itself without his steering.

He didn’t need to lead every moment.

Sometimes, letting the current carry you was enough.

Because eventually, it all flowed where he wanted anyway.

And her?

She’d flow right to him.

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