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

“Ah,” he said, the word low and smooth as velvet, “you meant this.”

In one motion, he gripped the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward.

The fabric peeled away, revealing taut skin and a sharply defined set of abs—etched muscle tight against his frame, lean and honed from weeks of brutal conditioning, late-night sparring, system-pushed limits.

His body wasn’t just toned.

It was carved.

The air shifted. Isabelle’s eyes flicked—once.

And then—

“Gulp.”

A small, involuntary sound.

She immediately tensed, lips pressing together like she could pull the sound back in.

Damien saw it.

Of course he did.

And he stepped forward just enough to bridge the space between them. Not pressing. Not aggressive.

Just there.

He reached out, slowly, and took her wrist in his hand—gentle, careful.

Then, with deliberate motion, he guided her palm to rest flat against his abs.

Warm skin. Tight muscle.

Controlled breathing.

“I wouldn’t be uncomfortable,” Damien murmured, voice a low rumble. “In fact…”

His fingers curled just faintly around her wrist.

“I’d love it.”

The second her hand made full contact—skin against skin, the heat of his body radiating into her palm—Isabelle froze.

Her breath hitched. Her cheeks bloomed crimson.

And then—slap.

Not harsh. Not violent. But a sharp smack against his wrist as she yanked her hand away like she’d touched an open flame.

“You—scoundrel!” she hissed, voice flaring with embarrassment. “What the hell are you doing!?”

Damien tilted his head, utterly unbothered, his shirt still casually raised as if he hadn’t just sparked a Category 5 fluster-storm.

“What?” he asked, lips curling into a maddeningly slow grin. “I’m just letting you have a peek.”

“A—what peek?!” she snapped, a note of alarm breaking through her usual composure.

“The peek,” he said smoothly, lowering his voice just enough to make her pulse spike again, “of what you’ll get in the future.”

Isabelle’s mouth opened.

Closed.

No words came out.

Only a noise—half outrage, half something else—before she spun slightly to the side, one hand over her flushed face, the other gripping her towel like a lifeline.

‘Why does he say these things with a straight face—’

Desperate to regain some measure of control, she cleared her throat, straightened her back, and muttered, “Enough. That’s… that’s not even the point.”

“Oh?” Damien said, amusement thick in his tone. “What’s the point, then?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she couldn’t look at him right now without remembering the warmth of his skin under her hand—or the way her throat had betrayed her with that damn gulp.

So she changed the topic.

Immediately.

“I wanted,” Isabelle began again, forcing her voice back into its usual even rhythm, “to talk about the bet.”

Damien raised an eyebrow, but said nothing—just let her speak, the smirk settling into something quieter, more curious.

“The agreement,” she continued, regaining composure one breath at a time, “was that if you placed within the top twenty-five, I would take you on as my study partner.”

She turned back to face him fully, though her arms remained crossed, towel now clutched firmly between her fingers like a guard she refused to lower again.

“Well.” Her gaze lifted to meet his, steady now. “You did.”

‘No stammer. No flinch. She’s locked back in,’ Damien noted, his smirk curling at the edges again—but he didn’t interrupt.

“So,” Isabelle said, sharp and clear, “since you wanted to be my study partner, you will be.”

She said it like she was assigning duty roster in a war camp.

No trace of the awkward fluster from before. No acknowledgment of abs, touch, or teasing. Just clean authority.

“We’ll set a regular schedule starting Monday. You’ll study with me during evening prep twice a week, and during the weekend review sessions. In exchange, I expect consistent progress. You fall behind, the arrangement ends.”

Her tone wasn’t mean—but it was ironclad.

Serious. Focused.

Exactly how she always was when it came to studying.

Damien gave a low whistle under his breath, more amused than surprised. “You sound like you’ve had this speech ready since the exam.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes slightly. “I have standards.”

He tilted his head again, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “So I noticed.”

Then, after a beat, he nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“Fine by me,” he said. “I hold my end of a deal.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dipping just enough to make her jaw tighten again.

“Though fair warning… I am a bit hands-on when I learn.”

She glared.

He laughed.

Isabelle turned on her heel, clearly intent on ending the conversation there before Damien could throw in another shameless line.

But before she could take her second step—

Tap.

A gentle, two-finger touch on her shoulder.

She paused.

“…Hmm?”

She glanced back, half expecting more teasing. But Damien wasn’t smirking this time. Not entirely, anyway. His expression had softened—just a little—into something more direct. Still casual, still confident, but without the baiting edge.

“Study partners, right?” he said.

She blinked. “…Right.”

He held out his hand, palm up. “Then I’ll need your number.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not out of suspicion—more like realization dawning.

And then, it hit her.

They had never exchanged contact info.

Not once.

In a school where messages, DMs, and pinged invites flew every hour, she had somehow made it through four years without ever giving Damien Elford her number.

More than that—

He’d never asked.

Never messaged. Never tagged her. Never even reacted to one of her posts. Nothing.

For someone with his mouth, that kind of silence felt… almost suspicious.

Her expression shifted—just faintly.

“You never tried to message me before,” she said, more curious than accusatory.

Damien shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t chase people who aren’t ready to talk.”

She stared at him for a moment.

Then pulled her phone from her bag, unlocked it, and handed it over without another word.

He took it with a casual ease, thumbed in his number, then handed it back.

She glanced down.

Contact Saved: Damien Elford 🔥📚

She didn’t comment.

But the corner of her mouth did twitch upward—just for a second.

Then she turned fully and walked off, towel slung back over her shoulder, steps steady.

Damien watched her go, hands slipping back into his pockets, eyes glinting.

‘Study partners, huh.’

This was going to be fun.

*****

Isabelle kept her steps even as she made her way back across the gym floor, but something inside her rhythm felt… off. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to be felt. Her fingers still lingered near the towel slung over her shoulder, and the heat hadn’t entirely faded from her cheeks.

That feeling.

The firmness of it. When her hand had been pressed to his stomach—no, his abs—just for a moment. That taut heat beneath her palm. The sheer confidence with which he had taken her hand and placed it there. It wasn’t crude. It wasn’t even aggressive. It was…

‘Strange,’ she told herself. ‘That’s all. Unexpected. Surprising. Absolutely not worth thinking about.’

And yet.

Her palm still remembered the sensation with uncomfortable clarity. The shape. The definition. How steady he had been. How real it had felt.

She shook her head once, sharply. As if that could dislodge the memory.

By the time she reached the benches where the rest of the girls were gathered, her expression had mostly settled again. Iris was sitting with one leg propped up, sipping from her bottle. Celia had taken the center spot, as always, dabbing her neck with a handkerchief. And Madeline—

Madeline zeroed in on her like a hawk.

“Oh-ho?” she said, leaning sideways, a knowing gleam already sparkling in her eyes. “You were gone quite a while, Belle.”

Isabelle exhaled. “I wasn’t—”

“What did you talk about?” Madeline cut in, nudging her with an elbow. “Tell me it wasn’t about volleyball drills.”

Isabelle looked away, adjusting the towel on her shoulder with slow precision. “Nothing important.”

“That’s a lie,” Madeline said immediately, grinning now. “When you lie, your nose twitches just a little. It’s adorable.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“You are lying.”

“Madeline—”

“I bet he said something stupid again, didn’t he?” one of the other girls chimed in, scooting closer with a playful grin. “He looked like he was trying to flirt when I passed by.”

“More like he’s always trying to flirt,” another added. “But he only ever looks at one person.”

All their eyes turned to Isabelle at once.

She sighed and crossed her arms, refusing to meet any of their gazes.

“Drop it.”

But she was not the one to speak.

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