NOVPUBThe period dragged on for a few more minutes, the silence still pressing at the edges like the last hum of a struck bell. No one dared speak out of turn. Not after that. Even the teacher, after briefly glancing at the seating arrangement and checking her watch, seemed to realize the tension needed to bleed out before anything resembling a lesson could resume.
She cleared her throat. "That will be all for this period. Lunch break begins now. You may leave—but only when dismissed by row. I trust I don't need to remind you about proper protocol."
A quiet shuffle followed her words, chairs scraping softly against the polished floor as she gestured toward the first row. Students began gathering their things with the kind of restraint usually reserved for libraries and courtrooms.
Row by row, they trickled out.
The ones who had stirred the scene left with their heads lowered, eyes avoiding contact. Moren stayed seated longer than most, his face unreadable, but there was a twitch in his jaw. The girls near him whispered amongst themselves—but their tones were hushed now. Diminished.
Isabelle remained at her desk, organizing her notes with practiced calm.
Madeline leaned over as the classroom continued to thin, a small half-smile tugging at her lips. "So… you coming to the cafeteria with us today?"
Isabelle paused mid-fold of her notebook, then shook her head. "No. I brought my lunch."
Madeline blinked, then gave her a look. "You always bring your lunch. That's not a real reason."
"It's enough of one," Isabelle replied, adjusting her glasses. "I've got some notes to sort through as well."
Madeline studied her face for a second. Then leaned back in her chair with a theatrical sigh.
"You know, Belle, sometimes I think you're part clockwork."
Isabelle didn't dignify that with a reply. She just slid her pen into its loop and began tidying her desk space with mechanical precision.
Madeline stood with a groan, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "Fine. But if I come back and find Damien Elford sitting next to you again, uninvited, I swear I'm reporting him for breaking territorial boundaries."
"Do that," Isabelle said flatly, though her expression barely shifted.
Madeline grinned and finally walked off, leaving Isabelle alone as the last few students trickled out.
And then it was quiet.
Almost.
Because from the back of the room, a chair creaked.
The chair creaked softly as Damien shifted, drawing his bento from his bag with deliberate ease. The soft metallic click of the lid broke the still air. He moved like he always did—measured, unhurried, entirely unbothered by the echo of what had happened earlier.
Isabelle didn't look up immediately. She was already unfolding the cloth from her own lunch, adjusting the corners with quiet, practiced motions.
It had become something of a routine.
Somehow, over the past few weeks, it had simply started happening—after one incident, then another. Two students who never left the room during lunch. One out of habit. The other, out of preference. And gradually, out of that overlap came a kind of rhythm. An unspoken agreement.
They weren't eating together, not exactly. Just… nearby. Close enough that a conversation could happen. And often did.
From across the room, Damien's voice came low and amused. "Class Rep," he said, "am I allowed to come over, or am I in detention today? Your eyes are a little fierce."
Isabelle glanced at him, arching a brow. "Then maybe don't provoke half the class before lunch."
He grinned, unbothered, biting down on a piece of sweet soy beef before responding. "Self-defense," he said simply. "It wasn't me who started it."
Isabelle didn't even look up as she opened her own lunch container, her voice clipped with dry incredulity. "Are you a child from middle grade or something? That's the exact argument they use when they get caught fighting in the halls. 'They started it.'"
"But they were the ones who started it," Damien said, mouth half full, gesturing slightly with his chopsticks. "What, you want me to roll over and thank them for the privilege of being insulted?"
She gave him a pointed glance, but didn't immediately respond.
Damien leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he added, more quietly this time, "And you and I both know, I'm not the kind of guy who lets himself get trampled on."
A pause.
His eyes met hers—sharper now, no longer just playing.
"And you're no different, are you?"
That pulled her gaze. For a moment, she said nothing, her fingers motionless over her lunchbox. There was no immediate denial. No scoff. Just silence.
Because he was right.
She hated injustice. Hated watching people with power bend rules around themselves like they were untouchable. She had always acted—not just reacted—when someone crossed the line. She knew what it felt like to be stepped on.
And she knew how much it cost to stand back up.
Finally, she exhaled through her nose and looked back at him.
"That doesn't give you the right to torch them in front of the entire class," she muttered. "You could've said half of that and still made your point."
He tilted his head. "Wouldn't have been as effective."
Isabelle shook her head slowly. "You're…..Sigh…."
Damien didn't let the silence stretch far. He leaned in a little, eyes glinting with that same mixture of curiosity and challenge.
"You were going to say something," he murmured. "Go on, Rep. Don't stop halfway."
Isabelle picked up a piece of grilled fish with her chopsticks, but didn't lift it to her mouth. Her expression tightened, brow furrowing faintly.
"I wasn't," she said flatly.
"Liar," he said, voice smooth, teasing. "You sighed like the world disappointed you."
She glanced sideways at him, unimpressed. "If you must know, I chose not to speak further because I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
He blinked once. Then gave a slow, amused smile. "Ah, how considerate of you."
"I try."
"Was it going to be something cruel?"
She paused. "No. Just… brutally honest."
"Well, I'm a fan of honesty."
She raised a brow. "You wouldn't be, if you heard what I was going to say."
Damien gave a soft chuckle. "Then I appreciate your mercy, Class Rep."
Isabelle rolled her eyes, finally taking a bite, chewing slowly. But even as she ate, her thoughts turned elsewhere. Something sharper crept back into her tone.
"So," she said, not looking at him this time, "are you still confident after that exam?"
Damien tilted his head slightly. "You mean the bet?"
"Yes. The bet," she confirmed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Top twenty-five. You made quite the scene about it, if I recall."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took another bite of his lunch, as if deliberately making her wait.
Then, after swallowing—
"I'm not just confident," Damien said. "I'm sure."
Isabelle looked at him now, openly, chopsticks frozen above her container. "You're sure?"
He nodded. "Dead sure."
Her eyes narrowed faintly. "You didn't even know what a discriminant was two weeks ago."
"Maybe and maybe not," he said. "How can you know?"
She stared for another second longer, watching him—watching how calm he looked. How his smirk didn't waver, but it wasn't the arrogant kind. Not exactly. It was grounded in something else.
Belief.
Whether it was well-placed or not… that was another matter entirely.
"…We'll see," she muttered, turning back to her food.
Damien leaned back a little, looking pleased.
"Oh, we will."
