The Weight of Rest 6

Chapter 6: The Moment Between

Time hit pause.

The breeze — gone. The birds — frozen mid-flap, like statues auditioning for a royal garden display. Even Simon’s breath hung suspended in the air, a soft question in the quiet.

And Jasmine? She was trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts, caught somewhere between panic and possibility, her mind an overstuffed suitcase bursting at the seams.

Okay, okay, she told herself, fingers twitching at the golden anklets that jingled a little too loudly in the stillness. Let’s run through this again.

Clothes haven’t come off. Not yet. No hands in dangerous places. No “we’re definitely crossing a line” signals.

But wait — is that really true? I spent half the morning digging through my closet, second-guessing every choice, trying to find just the right balance: not too obvious, not too casual, but definitely… something.

Premeditated? Totally.

And even if no one else saw through it, I can’t fool myself.

She imagined the headlines, bold and unforgiving: “Agrabah’s Princess Has Midlife Crisis at 23. Experts Shocked She Lasted This Long.”

She laughed — half because it was funny, half because it wasn’t. Twenty-three. Midlife crisis. What a cosmic joke.

Honestly, it might be the most accurate headline of my entire life.

Her thoughts tumbled faster now, a chaotic mashup of doubts and excuses.

I’m supposed to be the perfect princess. The one who never stumbles. The one who thinks before she acts, who controls everything — including herself. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am supposed to be.

But who decided that? The question burned a little brighter with every breath. Who drew the line between duty and desire? Between what’s allowed and what’s needed?

Her mind darted to Aladdin.

He was a good man. Flawed, messy, reckless — but good.

She remembered his laughter, easy and wild, like wind through palm trees. She could almost hear it now, carried faintly on the garden breeze.

He meant well, she admitted. He always did.

But kindness wrapped in control was still control. And rest handed down like a command was still a cage.

He’d sent messages ahead, orchestrating a vacation she hadn’t asked for, a forced reprieve dressed up as love.

Thank you, but no thank you.

She swallowed hard.

Her breath trembled, caught between frustration and exhaustion.

I’m not a child. I’m not someone who needs saving. I’m the ruler of Agrabah now.

And rulers made hard choices.

She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the crown pressing down — both literal and invisible. The responsibility, the expectations, the constant balancing act between heart and throne.

Simon stood nearby, calm and steady, the image of quiet strength. No demands, no pressure. Just presence.

He’s not trying to trap me. He’s letting me choose.

And maybe that was what she needed most.

Her pulse pounded, the soft jingle of her anklets a reminder that she was alive. Fierce. Hungry.

I want to be wanted. Not gently, not carefully. Thoroughly.

She bit her lip, the wild laughter bubbling up inside her chest threatening to spill free. I want to be ruined for a little while.

No. Who was she kidding? That was a half-measure, a polite excuse wrapped in desperation. She inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing with fierce determination.

I’m stressed. I need a good hard —

Before the thought could even finish, the world shifted. The frozen moment thawed as the breeze stirred the jasmine-scented air, the birds flung themselves back into flight, and Simon’s patient gaze locked with hers — steady, unwavering, waiting for her choice.

She stepped closer, voice low but resolute, every ounce of hesitation shed.

It didn’t matter that she’d seen him with Ariel that morning. It didn’t matter that he’d flipped to Grimhilde like a switch, his gaze sliding to her like she was the only star in the sky. Of course he did. That’s what Simon did. That’s who he was at Rosewood. He gave you his full attention. His full presence. He made you feel like you were the only one that mattered — for as long as you had him.

No — for as long as you needed him.

Maybe he wasn’t a man at all. Maybe he was a service. A kind of… bespoke escape the Hall provided. A walking reprieve. A tailored fantasy.

And maybe that was fine.

She couldn’t compete with Grimhilde. She didn’t need to. She didn’t need to be the best or the first or the unforgettable one.

She just needed this. She just needed to feel — for one fleeting, aching heartbeat — like she was utterly wanted.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Even if it didn’t last.

Even if she’d be gone tomorrow and Simon wouldn’t miss her.

That was fine. That was the trade.

“Yes. Make me forget my name.”

The gardens of Rosewood Hall were usually peaceful in the early afternoon, the air thick with the scent of late blossoms, the birds lazily weaving through sun-dappled leaves.

Today, though, the tranquility was repeatedly — and enthusiastically — shattered.

Jasmine’s cries, breathless and unrestrained, carried easily through the ivy-covered archways and winding garden paths.

Belle was the first to arrive, having followed the echoing sounds with casual curiosity. She tucked herself into a bend in the hedge, perfectly screened by a flowering trellis. Her arms folded, her head tilted, and a sly smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Hmm. Looks like the princess finally found the chapter on ‘stress relief.’ Bravo.”

Another sharp cry echoed from the garden alcove, punctuated by a breathless gasp of Simon’s name. Belle arched a brow.

Ariel scampered up next, having clearly followed the commotion like a trail of breadcrumbs. She nearly stumbled into Belle, eyes wide as the next round of desperate moans filled the air.

“Oh barnacles! “ Ariel clamped a hand over her mouth, then whispered through a poorly stifled giggle, “Mission accomplished?”

Belle’s dry smile deepened. They high-fived quietly, careful not to rustle the leaves.

The rhythm inside the secluded alcove surged again — Simon’s low murmur, Jasmine’s unrestrained cries, the soft thump of bodies pressed against stone.

Grimhilde strolled up next, moving with languid grace, her curiosity piqued by the not-so-subtle soundtrack of passion threading through the hedges.

“Is that three or four?” she asked, cocking her head as if tallying scores at a game. “Next time, I won’t let him off so easily.”

Another heady cry echoed out — long, desperate, thoroughly satisfied.

Maleficent appeared last, gliding soundlessly down the garden path. “Right on time,” she drawled.

The others turned to her, brows lifting. Maleficent took one look at the huddled spectators, then rolled her eyes in perfect, theatrical exasperation.

“Well, it is the Rosewood Hall tradition, is it not?”

The silence that followed was instant and perfect.

Belle blinked. Ariel’s mouth hung slightly open. Grimhilde’s smile flickered with recognition.

Each of them, privately, remembered their own Simon stories.

No one argued.

The rhythm inside the secluded alcove surged again — Simon’s low murmur, Jasmine’s unrestrained cries, the soft thump of bodies pressed against stone. Grimhilde’s faint smirk deepened. Maleficent’s timing, as always, was impeccable.

“When are you seeing him?” Belle asked, her voice deceptively light.

“Five minutes ago,” Maleficent answered, unbothered.

Belle’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. Maleficent was already striding toward the garden alcove, her pace unhurried but resolute. Moments later, Jasmine’s startled squeal rang out, sharp and unguarded.

Ariel pouted. “Rude!”

Grimhilde’s smile turned wicked. “Ooh, that’s going to leave a scar.”