Damien slowed when he noticed Isabelle changing course toward the counter. His brows lifted slightly, and he turned to face her directly.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
She didn't pause. "To pay. This time, it's on me."
Damien blinked, then followed a step behind her, voice more puzzled than annoyed. "Why? I also studied with you. Why are you paying?"
"Because," she said without turning, "you already covered everyone's meal earlier. This time it should be mine."
He huffed softly. "Come on, Rep. I volunteered for that."
"Well," she said firmly, glancing back at him, "this time I'm volunteering."
And just like that, she stepped up to the counter.
The digital panel brightened as she approached. A soft chime announced her presence, and the receptionist—an older woman with silver pins in her hair and a crisp uniform—gave her a gentle nod.
"Good evening. What's your booth number?" she asked.
Isabelle answered evenly, "Twelve-C."
