Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 129: Are you okay? (2)

Elise glanced up from the scanner, just in time to catch the stiffening in Isabelle's shoulders.

Oh?

Her lips curled ever so slightly. Not quite a smirk—more a diagnostic expression of curiosity.

"I knew you were invested," she said casually, tone light. "But I didn't think it ran that deep."

Isabelle's head turned sharply. "Excuse me?"

"I mean," Elise continued, feigning innocence as she adjusted the scanner's setting, "the protective tone, the shoulder support, the death glare you gave that striker… if I didn't know better, I'd say you were auditioning for the position of his personal bodyguard."

Damien grinned, wincing as he stretched his leg slightly. "If she is, I approve the application."

Isabelle's eyes snapped to him.

"That wasn't a compliment," she snapped.

Damien raised both hands in mock surrender. "Didn't sound like an insult either."

Isabelle's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, then—

Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched straight out of the room, her shoes clacking sharply on the infirmary tiles.

The door clicked shut behind her.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Elise let out a soft whistle. "Touchy."

Damien exhaled a short breath, half amusement, half regret. "She gets like that when she's flustered."

Elise gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, I'm sure she does."

She turned back to her work, repositioning the wand. The scanner began pulsing again, mapping the damage in his knee in fine, glowing lines.

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A few more seconds passed before her hands shifted down, gently pressing along the tendons and muscle of his leg. It was a routine check. Standard procedure.

But what wasn't routine was the resistance under her fingers.

Her brows furrowed.

These weren't the soft, pliant legs of the overweight boy she'd patched up last semester.

She pressed a little further up the thigh—subtle, clinical.

Solid.

Dense muscle, honed and tightly packed beneath the surface, wrapped in skin that felt firmer now. And lower on his calf, the tendons flexed slightly as she shifted his foot.

Elise blinked.

When he first came in—months ago—he was still bloated. Still heavy. She remembered the numbers clearly: 120 kilograms. And not the kind of weight that hid strength beneath it. It had been soft. Padded. Breathless even after climbing stairs.

Now?

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced at the updated chart. 105 kilograms.

That was a fifteen-kilo drop.

In this short a time?

Her fingers moved again—this time slower, lingering along the edges of the injury and just a little past. A nurse's touch, yes, but one trained in reading bodies, not just treating them.

'His quads have definition now… His hamstrings don't sag when I lift… even the fat around his knees is nearly gone…'

She bit the inside of her cheek, composing herself.

This wasn't some gym rat transformation. No, it was something fiercer. Intentional. The result of effort pushed past the point of breaking, a daily war waged against inertia.

'He's rebuilding himself.'

And she could feel it—in every taut line of muscle where flab used to be, in the way his posture held even when in pain, in the strange, low hum of quiet power beneath his surface.

Her fingers brushed once more across the upper part of his thigh, then withdrew.

'…Damien Elford, huh?'

She hadn't thought much of him before. Not beyond the basic charts. He was another case. A ticking time bomb of metabolism, low self-esteem, and isolation.

But this?

This wasn't that boy anymore.

And for just a moment—as her hand pulled away, as the scanner beeped its final analysis—her gaze flicked up to his face again. His breathing was steady now. Chest rising and falling with a strange calm.

And under the dim lights, with that faint sheen of sweat clinging to his collarbone, and that new tension in his jawline?

It was hard to pretend she wasn't seeing something different.

Something more.

Her lips parted slightly.

Then closed again.

Professional. Be professional.

Elise tapped through the scan results with a flick of her fingers, lips tightening into a faint line. She knelt again, the fabric of her uniform folding neatly at the knees as she lowered herself beside the bench.

"One more check," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Her hands returned to his leg, slower this time—intentional, deliberate. She pressed gently along the inner line of the quadriceps, tracing the muscles just beneath the skin. Her fingers noted every ridge, every dip of newly formed definition.

It was clinical.

Or it was supposed to be.

But she felt it. The slight twitch of the muscle beneath her palm. The way the heat from his body met her fingertips.

Fifteen kilograms gone. That was the technical fact.

But what wasn't in the chart was the difference in feel—the strength now housed in what used to be softness. She traced her thumb across the line of his thigh, just high enough to notice the hem of his shorts shifting slightly as he shifted his weight.

And there—just at the edge of her peripheral vision—

A curve. Faint but undeniable. Pressed against the fabric, just barely outlined by the stretch of his gym shorts.

Her breath caught for a moment.

'Not bad...'

The thought arrived uninvited. Warm. Crooked.

She blinked, forcing herself to look away, her fingers freezing mid-press.

'This attitude is unacceptable.'

Professionalism wasn't a suggestion. Especially not for her. Especially not here.

Elise exhaled slowly, adjusting her position and letting her fingers resume their usual, calculated rhythm. The distraction passed as quickly as it had come.

A flick of her wrist. She stood.

"Wrap the joint for the next twenty-four hours. No running. No pivots. You can walk, but keep the weight off it as much as possible."

Damien raised an eyebrow. "So crutches?"

"Only if you enjoy dramatic entrances," she replied dryly, moving to prep the stabilizer brace. "I'd recommend a walking stick, but somehow I don't think you'd wield it with the dignity it deserves."

Damien let out a dramatic sigh, hand rising to his chest like he'd been struck. "You think I don't have dignity? Dear nurse, you wound me."

Elise didn't even glance up from the brace she was tightening. "Hmph. Those with dignity don't wear a lecherous gaze like a second uniform."

His lips curved, sly. "Dear nurse… your hands weren't exactly free from lechery either."

That made her pause.

Just briefly.

"…My hands were performing a medical evaluation."

"With unusual enthusiasm."

Her jaw ticked, but her voice remained dry. "Says the boy who just admitted to enjoying having a woman kneeling in front of him."

He leaned back slightly, smirking. "With a beautiful lady like you right there, even if it's not in that direction, it helps me build the scene in my head."

Elise snorted. "You should stop watching so much por—"

"I don't watch things like that," he interrupted quickly, almost primly.

She arched an eyebrow. "So you're inherently like this?"

"Heh… It's my quality."

"I say it's delusion."

"I say it's fantasy."

They locked eyes—his glinting with mischief, hers narrowed with practiced disbelief.

Then, finally, Elise sighed. "You're lucky you're injured. I might've thrown the brace at your head."

"I'd still thank you," Damien said smoothly, grin widening. "Violent affection from a stern beauty—it completes the aesthetic."

She stood again, brushing off her hands, eyes narrowing as she handed him the rest of the wrapping.

"Wrap it yourself tomorrow," she muttered. "Pervert."

He gave her a mock salute. "With pride."

Elise rolled her eyes and turned away, but the faintest tug at the corner of her lips lingered—hard to spot, harder still to admit.

Just then, the door to the infirmary swung open with a firm clack.

Galen Kross stepped inside, his boots cutting through the silence like a judge entering a courtroom. His presence hit the room with the same weight it always carried—efficient, imposing, and utterly unamused.

The slight hum of the diagnostic wand paused mid-cycle. Nurse Elise straightened, one hand still holding the stabilizer brace, her expression shifting instantly from dry amusement to calm neutrality.

Damien, meanwhile, didn't move. He was still seated on the exam bed, leaning slightly back on his palms, one knee bandaged, the other leg angled lazily downward. The smirk on his face remained, but the glint behind it flickered. He recognized that stride. That energy.

Galen Kross wasn't just walking in for a casual check-up.