The Weight of Rest 7

Chapter 7: The Weight Beneath the Game

Simon’s seat at dinner was conspicuously empty.

Ariel noticed first, her brow creasing. “Is Simon not coming?”

Belle glanced toward the hall, then back to her plate. “I suppose he’s resting.”

Maleficent stabbed a piece of roasted pear with a little more force than necessary. “He was thoroughly spent,” she murmured, almost to herself.

She flicked a glance toward Jasmine, who was meticulously focused on slicing her fruit, eyes fixed on her plate. She didn’t look at anyone. “The spirit was willing. The man, however, was… wilted.”

Grimhilde’s mouth quirked in faint amusement, but she said nothing.

Belle tried not to laugh but failed, poorly disguising her grin behind her hand. After regaining some composure, she offered carefully, “It didn’t go well?”

Maleficent swirled her wine, affecting a vague boredom she didn’t quite manage. “I expected him to try… harder. But his performance was limp.”

Ariel choked on her water, coughing into her sleeve.

Jasmine’s grip on her glass slipped, wine sloshing clumsily. Tendinitis again, perhaps.

Grimhilde closed her eyes, clenched her jaw fiercely, trying to suppress her expression. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Shame,” Maleficent drawled. “I’ll have to reschedule.”

Grimhilde tapped the rim of her glass, feigning idle thought. “In a few days, perhaps.”

Belle set her fork down, her voice almost too even. “I haven’t even had a turn.”

Silence bloomed across the table.

It started with Ariel and Belle.

They arrived in the hallway outside Simon’s room at almost the same time, each carrying something — Ariel with an extra blanket, Belle with a fresh pillow.

They smiled knowingly at each other.

“He pushed pretty hard today,” Ariel said.

Belle nodded. “He always does for us.”

Grimhilde appeared a beat later, slowing as she spotted them. Unlike them, she carried nothing — just a faint, unreadable arch to her brow.

“You’re here to check on him?” she asked, not mocking, but curious.

“Of course,” Belle said simply.

Ariel gave her a puzzled look. “Aren’t you?”

Grimhilde hesitated, glancing at the door as if weighing whether to intrude. “I was curious what state Maleficent left him in.”

Belle blinked. “You think she — ”

“She’s the Queen of All Evil,” Grimhilde said dryly. “I wouldn’t assume she’s sentimental.”

Ariel grinned. “She’s not. But she does practical things. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Grimhilde considered this, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Simon was sprawled on the couch, boots still on, one arm draped over his eyes, the other dangling limply off the side. The blanket had slipped down around his knees, the pillow behind his head lopsided.

But someone — almost certainly Maleficent — had at least pulled the blanket over him at some point. It had simply fallen as he tossed in his sleep.

His breathing was deep and steady, his mouth slightly parted. He looked completely spent.

Ariel and Belle stepped in without hesitation.

Belle plucked the fallen pillow from the floor, carefully tucking it behind his head. Ariel draped her extra blanket over his chest and fussed with it until it lay just so.

Grimhilde, watching them for a moment, quietly crossed to the hearth and stoked the fire back to life. She didn’t announce it. She simply did it.

They worked around him in practiced silence, tidying, rearranging, adjusting — not to win his favor, not to be seen, just because he’d given all he had.

Grimhilde cast a final glance at Simon before pulling the door closed behind them.

“Do you think he knows we all checked on him?” she asked softly. But then straightened, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve. “Not that it matters.”

Belle, gentle as ever, said, “He’ll realize it. He always does.”

Grimhilde’s gaze lingered on the door for half a breath more, then she inclined her head and walked away, composed once more.

When the hall was empty, a figure stepped quietly out of the adjoining corridor — Jasmine, her hand resting lightly on the wall, her expression thoughtful.

She’d seen all of it.

She’d watched them tend to Simon — not with showy affection or romantic desperation, but with quiet, practiced care. And they hadn’t needed to be seen. They weren’t competing. They weren’t trying to win him. They just… wanted to be there for him.

They didn’t need to be special to care for him. He didn’t need to be special to care for them.

The morning air was crisp in Rosewood Hall, carrying the faint sweetness of dew and the lazy promise of another idle day.

Simon crossed the courtyard at an easy pace, a thick letter carefully cradled in his hand. The wax seal was pressed with Agrabah’s royal emblem — her emblem — and though his steps were unhurried, a coil of concern tightened in his chest.

His gut told him this wasn’t good news.

He was nearly to the library doors when a familiar blur of red hair darted into his path.

“Good morning!” Ariel sang, her grin stretched a little too wide, her eyes zeroed in on the letter like a magpie spotting something shiny. “Is that for Jasmine?”

Simon didn’t slow. “Yes. I was just on my way to her.”

“Oh, but you don’t need to trouble yourself. I can deliver it! I’m very reliable. Top-notch delivery service.”

Simon’s brow twitched. “You previously vowed to hide her letters.”

Ariel waved a dismissive hand. “That was a temporary vow. I’m revising my policy. Now I only hide the boring ones. This one might be boring. I can screen it for her.”

Simon deftly adjusted his grip, holding the letter just beyond her reach. “I’m not handing this over to you.”

“I’m protecting her!” Ariel insisted. “What if it’s full of stress? What if it ruins her whole day? I’m rescuing her from bureaucracy. That’s practically hero work.”

“You once declared a sea slug the Royal Ambassador to Kelp Forests.”

“And he was excellent until he got eaten by a grouper.”

She lunged — fast — but Simon pivoted smoothly, the letter slipping just out of reach. Ariel circled him like a cat, her fingers poised to snatch.

“I’m trained for this, Simon,” she whispered. “I’ve intercepted many things.”

“You’re not getting this one.”

They fell into a polite but stubborn tug-of-war, each holding a corner of the letter with just their fingertips, neither escalating to a full pull, neither conceding.

Belle appeared, serene and unsurprised, arms loosely folded, her gaze sliding to their stand-off.

“Is this a new dance?” she asked, her voice velvety with amusement. “Or a standoff?”

“She’s trying to steal the letter,” Simon said flatly.

“I’m safeguarding the letter,” Ariel corrected, tugging with delicate insistence.

Belle stepped closer, her eyes flicking to the seal. “Hmm. Official. Possibly urgent. Perhaps we should open it. Glance at the contents. Decide whether it’s worth disturbing her.”

Simon’s grip tightened. “That’s completely improper.”

Ariel’s jaw dropped in mock horror. “That’s practically a crime! Belle, you’re better than this!”

Belle’s lips twitched. “Am I?”

Simon tugged. Ariel tugged back. Belle, with a hint of mischief, pinched the edge and joined the struggle.

“This is a violation of royal privacy,” Simon hissed.

“And a valuable time-saving exercise,” Belle said smoothly.

Ariel’s grip shifted. “I say we vote.”

“I say no one’s letting go,” Belle murmured, her smile perfectly polite as the letter strained between their fingers.

The tension escalated in micro-movements, each of them pulling just a fraction harder, their civility teetering at the edge of collapse.

A sharp voice cut through the air behind them.

“Really?”

They froze.

Jasmine stood with her arms crossed, her stare flat, sharp, and unamused. Her hair was loosely knotted, still damp from a bath, her anklets chiming faintly as she closed the distance.

None of them let go.

Without a word, she stepped forward, scrunching the letter in both hands, and yanked — snapping it from their grip in one decisive wrench like the severing of a tangled knot.

She glared at each of them in turn.

Simon cleared his throat, trying to arrange his face into something innocent. Belle offered a delicate curtsy, utterly unapologetic. Ariel sheepishly rubbed the back of her neck. “We were… gonna screen it for you.”

Jasmine’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed off, the letter already tearing open in her hands, the wax seal snapping under her thumb.

The trio lingered behind, awkward in the cooling silence.

“Well,” Belle murmured, brushing her skirts smooth. “That could have gone better.”

Ariel pouted. “You think she’s still mad?”

Simon sighed. “I think we’re lucky she didn’t throw us in the pond.”

They trailed after her — at a respectful distance.

Jasmine’s steps pounded down the corridor until she reached the quiet of her room. She slammed the door behind her, heart hammering as she unfolded the letter with quick, anxious fingers.

The opening lines were perfunctory. Courteous. But the urgency bled through the page.

The council required her immediate return. The grain policies were destabilizing in her absence. Distribution schedules had been upended, unintentionally harming the poorest districts.

But it was the final paragraph that shattered her breath.

His Majesty has departed the palace against our advisement. We believe he has gone in search of a treasure said to secure the kingdom’s future. He left us no further instruction. We require your leadership.

The room contracted around her. The edges of the page blurred.

He left.

He’d done exactly what she feared. Exactly what haunted her when she agreed to come to Rosewood. She’d hoped — desperately — that Aladdin would hold the line. That he would stay.

But he chased the silver bullet.

He ran.

She could barely breathe, could barely stand. Her knees buckled into the chair as the letter drooped in her trembling hands.

You promised me you’d hold it together.

Her chest squeezed painfully. Her mouth trembled as a soundless laugh caught in her throat — horribly brittle, horribly empty.

I should have known.

How could she have been so foolish? She let herself indulge in distractions, in pleasure, in the fantasy that she could have something for herself — Simon’s arms, Simon’s warmth, the sweet, aching reprieve she had stolen for just one afternoon.

How could I be so selfish? How could I leave?

She pressed her palm to her sternum, as if she could trap the fracture forming there.

Her pulse roared. Her breathing fractured. A film of sweat bloomed across her skin as the guilt clamped tighter.

The perfume she had dabbed behind her ears now smelled sour, cloying.

The anklets on her feet suddenly felt childish.

Her reflection in the window burned with shame — lips still pink from where Simon had kissed her, wrists still bearing faint thumbprints from where he had held her.

She ripped the anklets off and hurled them into the heap of silk she had left behind. The bells jingled mockingly as they landed.

I’m not the girl who gets to unravel. I’m not the girl who gets to be ruined for a little while.

I’m the one who stays.

I’m the one who doesn’t run.

I’m the one who cleans up what’s left behind.

Her hands shook as she shoved garments into her travel bag, tightening the leather straps with clipped, efficient jerks.

A knock.

“Jasmine?” Simon’s voice, low, careful.

“I’m leaving,” she called back, her voice sharp, almost metallic. “Immediately.”

Silence.

“Do you want to talk?”

She shook her head — quick, clipped. She couldn’t afford to.

He didn’t press. “I’ll… I’ll make preparations,” he said finally.

She yanked the door open, still clutching the crumpled letter in one fist, her other hand wrapped white-knuckled around the bag’s strap.

Simon stood there — steady, unmoving, offering no solutions, no questions, just quiet readiness.

He didn’t try to fix anything.

He just stepped closer.

His arms opened.

She didn’t think. She just dropped the bag, let the letter fall to the floor, and folded into him — her cheek pressed to his chest, her hands fisted tightly in the fabric of his shirt.

His arms wrapped around her, firm, certain, holding her like something he intended to keep safe for as long as he was allowed to.

She melted into him, her breath stuttering, her body trembling against his.

Her guilt screamed that she didn’t deserve this. That this moment had cost too much. That every heartbeat spent in his arms was another second she should have spent moving.

But she didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Her words tangled in her throat, too fragile to escape, too brittle to name.

Simon didn’t ask for them.

He just held her.

And for one fleeting, borrowed moment, she let herself believe that was enough.