A/N: Hello!
After much deliberation, I decided to write a sequel. "Violets" will be rather short, only spanning four chapters. Updates—I should be able to update weekly as I have the majority of the chapters written up. However, I'm also a busy university student flawed with procrastination so there is a—huge—probability that I may be delayed at some point. Let's hope not, shall we?
Warning: do not read unless you have read the predecessor—"When Chase Met Molly" or you will be extremely confused!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon, nor do I own any characters from various media that may be mentioned. The same applies for any films / songs / books / etc.
allyelle~
"The best things in life come in threes;
like friends, dreams, and memories."
—Mencius
.:. One .:.
Two Years Later
The marked, mahogany surface of the bar-top stared up at her as she ran a finger along the ingrains. She recognised carvings of names or crude phrases, the probable results of intoxicated boredom. Molly wanted to chisel her anger into the wood in the hope that Chase would read the insults directed at him once he arrived at work. 'Who's your hairdresser?' and 'is this burnt?' would suffice.
Molly was in a foul mood—and it was all his fault.
She knew that he had the sensitivity and tact of a door mat, yet he had overstepped his bounds with an earlier remark. He currently occupied their farmhouse, cleaning and organising—he detested how messy she was. But Molly found their locations wry. Chase, busy housework while Molly draped from the bar, delivering the tirade of her problems to an awaiting Kathy. The gender roles were reversed.
"So," Kathy prompted. "What has our beloved chef done this time?"
"I was hungry—"
"Like always?"
"Oh, you're one to talk! Who once knocked on our door at midnight begging Chase to make you waffles which you proceeded to smother in mustard and mayonnaise? Really, Kaths. That was revolting. I literally had to console him afterwards. He's permanently scarred."
Kathy winked, the swell of her stomach obtrusive through her floaty polka-dot dress. It left Molly wondering how she fit through doors. During the previous months, her appearance altered dramatically. She ditched short skirts and cropped tops, replacing the wear with chiffon dresses or blouses, golden hair loose and long as it tickled her lower-back. Visually, she was angelic and innocent—but Molly knew better.
"Hush," she slapped her arm. "You'll know the struggle when you're pregnant, honey."
Molly exhaled, lowering her gaze. "Chase doesn't like kids. He says they're loud and unnecessary."
Kathy tapped her watch—the clock's ticking.
"C'mon, Molls," she pressed. "What'd he do? You were hungry—and? Isn't that his only purpose? To feed people?"
"I asked him to make me vegetable lasagna. True—he'd already cooked lunch like half-an-hour earlier. He looked at me so oddly! Then you know what he had the nerve to say to me?"
"What?"
"He said—'you're getting pretty fat'."
"No!"
"Yes! What sort of boyfriend says that? I'll admit, my cheeks have gotten a little chubbier. But I'll be thirty in two years. I can't be expected to have my twenty-year-old-metabolism forever now can I?"
"Well, did you get it?"
"Did I get what?"
"The lasagna."
"Oh, of course. But that's not the point—he thinks I'm fat, Kaths."
Molly's lip puckered, fist resting against her cheek.
"This," Kathy emphasised as she patted her abdomen. "Is what you call tubby, honey. Maybe years of a diet consisting of strawberry ice-cream has finally caught up with you."
"Oh, boy. If it has, you'll be calling me Violet Beauregarde by next week as you roll me out of the door."
Kathy laughed, the sound melodious as it echoed the bar. She turned, glass in hand as she mixed one of the farmer's favourite cocktails. However Molly waved her hands, stopping her. "No, no. Don't get me that. Just a water will do fine."
Kathy blinked—stunned. Fetching Molly the requested beverage, she snuck into the kitchen and immediately dialed Chase's number.
"You. Get. Here. Now."
.:.
The door whacked the adjacent wall, horseshoes and black and white photographs trembling with the assault. Dandelion fluff floated into the dimly-lit bar, along with the seeping of spring sunshine. Chase's palm leaned against the wooden panel, his hair haphazardly pinned back while an apron tied his waist with a number of cleaning products stuffed into the pockets.
"Dolly," he announced as Kathy flicked her hair and returned a freshly cleaned glass to the shelf. Molly noticed that she didn't order them in the same way that Chase did. His were perfectly lined and disciplined while Kathy's were diagonal and quirky, wasting valuable space.
Molly frowned and twisted her torso. "You—I thought you were cleaning," her eyes raked his frame, lips lifting at his appearance. "You look like a housewife."
Chase ignored her and slouched against the bar, attention set on Kathy. "I was, until Blondie over here made it sound like the bar was on fire," his eyes were slit, briefly drifting to her organisation of glasses. His jaw was set and he closed his eyes, forcing himself to disregard the unstructured imperfection. "Seriously, what is it? Don't waste my time."
Kathy folded her arms, gaze lingering over Molly in evident concern. "She asked for water, Chase. Water. Even when we were in university and she'd have a killer hangover she still wouldn't ask for water. Can you see why I'd be concerned?"
His eyes flickered to Molly as she pushed the glass between her palms, water sloshing. "Have a craving for good ol' H20, did we?"
"Is that a problem?" her head spun, lips pursed as irritation coursed through her. "Is drinking water a crime now? Has Hamilton mandated a new law banning all sights, smells and thoughts of water? Is it suddenly on the same moral scale as murder?"
"Wrong. Water doesn't have a smell and the sight of water—well, I hate to break it to you but this is an ocean town. As in, all that surrounds us is water. And if water is all that's occupying your thoughts you might as well institutionalize yourself now."
Molly batted his arm, voice quiet. "You're so pedantic."
He staged a gasp, yet his face was blank—emotionless. "What, I'm perfect?"
She laughed at his expression, any previous vexation forgotten. "My words exactly."
"Stop—I'm a blushing mess," he drawled, walking into the kitchen without another word. A few moments later he returned, fingers latched around a tub of strawberry ice-cream. "God, when was the last time you ate this? There's enough in the freezer to abolish world hunger."
Molly grimaced at the frozen dessert within his grasp, pointedly turning away like a small child refusing to eat their vegetables. Chase exhaled and placed it under her nose, nudging it closer with each passing second, stopping when it neared the edge of the counter.
"Eat it," he pressed.
"Oh, would you just stop it!" she fumed, voice shrill as she stood abruptly, the stool toppling backwards. "I don't want it!"
"You don't want it?" Chase flinched at her outburst, eyes wide. "Please. You're delusional."
Her eyes narrowed, lips parted in reply. Yet he didn't humour her response as he forced her to sit, fingers pinching her chin. He studied her face like the countless recipe books harbored in their kitchen—serious and searching.
"What? What are you looking for?"
"Sanity."
He brushed her fringe back, palm resting against her forehead to check for a fluctuation in temperature.
"She's not even hot," he murmured as he exchanged a glance with Kathy.
"I'm fat and now I'm not even hot. Love you too."
Chase rolled his eyes and grabbed her hand, pulling her in the direction of the clinic.
.:.
"Be straight with me," Chase began, foot resting against his knee while fingers threaded under his nose. "Is it terminal? Is she dying?"
Molly perched in the chair beside him, boots drumming wood. The doctor faced them, the pristine white of his laboratory coat highlighting Chase's shaggy hair and the soil caked underneath Molly's fingernails.
"I am not dying," Molly reasoned, eyes daggers. "Sorry about this, Jin. I really am fine," she stood, wanting to leave in haste. "We should go—"
A force enclosed around her wrist, pulling her back down into the seat. "Dolly, sit down," his voice was imperative. She flinched, stunned from the contrast of his usual apathy. His lips were pursed, jaw set as eyes locked with hers—serious and stony with flecks of confusion. "You're sick."
"In the head?" she added, surprised that he hadn't volunteered the quip himself.
"No, I made that diagnosis eight years ago," he drawled, releasing the grip on her wrist. "Strawberry ice-cream. You—you didn't want it."
He smoothed his curls back, gaze fixed on the pot of pens as though the answer to his bemusement were held within molecules of ink. Molly found herself staring—she was strangely fascinated by his open uncertainty.
"Maybe my obsession has an expiration date," she offered. "I don't know why you and Kathy are getting so worked up over this. I think the fact that I don't like it anymore has added at least ten years onto my life span."
"Molly, have your eating patterns changed?" Jin inquired, peering at her from underneath framed glasses. He had a notepad in possession, the pen idly tapping against blank paper.
"No, not at all."
Chase emitted a sound of disbelief. "Try and explain that to the wear on my pans," he bunched the fabric on the arm of her shirt. "And I suppose this is yours now too, is it? Contrary to popular belief, it's not endearing when you steal my clothes. My wardrobe is sparser than the contents of your brain."
"Dummy," she whacked his side, wrapping her arms around herself. "Your shirts are comfier, okay? Yeesh."
The scribbling of pen against paper reached her ears. "Any sickness or feelings of nausea?"
"I suppose," Molly admitted with a tiny shrug. "I was sick this morning. But I think it's just a virus. I wasn't vomiting blood or anything—you know, things that would indicate death."
Chase's elbow nudged hers. "You're only sick because you eat like a twelve-year-old."
Jin cleared his throat. "Do you have regular periods?"
"Uh," Molly blushed and Chase snorted, either to hide his embarrassment or to ridicule hers. "Now that I think about it… no."
She caught a glimpse of Jin's loopy and connected handwriting before he snapped the note-pad into the draw at his desk, clipping the pen onto his breast pocket. "Irene will give you a physical check-up," his smile was professional and practiced from the sight of Molly's nervous expression. "It's nothing to worry about."
"Don't worry. If you die in there," Chase bowed forwards, hands tied behind his back. If the context and person differed she may have presumed that they concealed a bouquet of flowers. His face was blank, yet his eyes sparkled playfully. "I'll be sure to give you the funeral of your dreams. Pink coffin?"
"I will haunt you," she wiggled her fingers and uttered wavering sounds of spookiness, finally following Irene behind the curtain.
.:.
"How is your farm work coming along? I hear it's quite strenuous. Does he help you?"
The elderly woman tucked a wiry strand into her bun as her eyes scanned a clipboard. Molly propped herself up from her position on the hospital bed and smoothed the creases from Chase's dark-grey shirt.
"Chase and dirt?" she held her stomach as she laughed. Yet it crossed Molly's mind that perhaps only she was aware of his finicky attitude towards mess and disorganization. "No, no. He's tired, working late at the bar and being Yolanda's henchmen."
Irene tutted in disapproval and switched on a monitor which projected black and white static.
Her eyebrows furrowed at the woman's vagueness. "What is it? Am I actually dying? I mean, I can't be, right? I can't give him the satisfaction."
Pursing her wrinkled lips, Irene shook her head and partially drew back the curtain to request the presence of Chase. The chef obliged, eyes roaming over her bare thighs, the results of her ruched skirt. Molly flushed at his gaze and shuffled the garment down.
He cleared his throat. "Well, I wrote your eulogy."
Short laughter tumbled from her lips as he fished a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Sentences that linked to her 'eulogy' were written—'the word that comes to mind to describe the deceased is insufferable'—and others that weren't—'I'm so bored. I asked Jin for paper and you'll never guess what stuff he keeps in that draw. Wink wink.'
Molly scrunched the paper and tossed it back to him. "You look like a normal person, but in actuality, you are an angel of death."
"I was bored—what could I do? It's not like I was about to start pacing."
She smiled coyly. "You were totally worried about me."
Chase snorted and turned his attention to Irene. The woman had her arms crossed, tapping her nails on the head of the monitor; yet he managed to switch the role of impatience onto himself.
"Diagnosis? I haven't got all day."
Irene narrowed her eyes, lips pursed in distaste at his haughty tone.
Molly couldn't think of a single person who liked Chase from the get go—he and Kathy eventually became good friends over the years, often meeting up at the bar for a round of drinks. He reminded her of a song one detested at first—the beat grating ears. Yet after countless replays, it becomes catchy and likable.
"Congratulations," her smile was misplaced and strained upon thin lips. "You're going to have a baby. I'd say that you're about three months along."
Her announcement brought the enclosed space to silence. For a long time, all Molly heard was the faint ticking of the clock. Chase inhaled sharply and drew the curtain back. She averted her eyes to see that his figure had vanished, the sound of the clinic door slamming shut behind him.
"I wouldn't worry child," she startled at the bony hand on her shoulder. "It's a big shock."
Molly was unable to tear her gaze from the place where Chase had departed. Seconds passed into minutes and he still didn't return. Exhaling, she slid from the bed and stumbled—as though she needed to relearn how to walk.
"I... I should go and check on him."
Without waiting for Irene's response, she made a beeline for the door. Her fingers fumbled and rattled the handle—but it wouldn't open. Blood pumped in her ears while the vision of her trembling hand blared. A white sleeve flashed and the distant sound of a voice reached her ears and the door opened. Molly mumbled an incoherent apology before staggering into the street.
She greedily inhaled the fresh spring air and it calmed her somewhat. Eyes searching for a peach-head, she spotted several residents conducting their usual business. Some smiled and waved, but Molly was frozen. It baffled her how everyone could behave so normally when she just received a piece of news that would change their lives forever.
Delving deeper into town, she located the figure of Chase overlooking the water. He was slumped against the black rail, fingers knotted behind his neck. Molly desperately wanted to read his thoughts, but his face was shrouded by billowing strands.
The day she spent at the docks with Toby and Renee's four-year-old son Matt floated into her mind. Paris contracted an illness a few months prior and Renee guilelessly insisted to take care of her, refusing any sort of payment. Guilt welled in Molly's stomach and she offered to take their son out for the day. The squawking of seagulls, swinging legs and the lapping of waves formed the scene as the duo played a game of 'I Spy'.
I spy a lighthouse, a fish or a cloud. The silhouettes of Kathy and Owen came into view when Matt craned his neck, a hand resting upon her rounded stomach. Molly expected him to say—'I spy a girl' or perhaps—'I spy a man'. Instead, he said—'I spy a family'.
She burst into tears. When she returned home, Chase inquired about her red eyes and she subtly approached the subject over dinner. The sight of his grimace and his words burned her memory—'Kids? Why would you want something that'll ruin your life?'
Nausea washed over her. Stepping forwards, her boots thumped against stone and Chase snapped his head to the sound. He was pale and his expression was blank, yet his eyes flashed, revealing the myriad of emotions bottled up within—anxiety and perplexity and guilt. Her smile was weak and insincere and his lips tightened in response.
"How'd this happen, huh?"
Her words were rhetorical; a poor attempt to induce conversation.
"I can offer many explanations."
Chase stared straight ahead with a crease above his nose. His voice was quiet, yet a sardonic undertone remained and her smile strengthened. She lifted her head and he held his lip between his teeth.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Selfishly, myself," a humourless sound formed in his throat as fingers raked though hair. "God, I can't believe I just walked out and left you in there. I didn't know if I was even going to go back in. I was..."
"You was what?"
He dragged a hand along his mouth and Molly craned to hear his words.
"Going to go to the bar."
She flushed in anger, hands bunching into fists. "I hate you."
Hesitantly, he extended a hand while a self-depreciating smile touched his lips. With the shake of his head, his fingers curled back into his palm—comforting would be in vain.
"I don't blame you," he murmured, facing her. "I never wanted kids."
Her infuriation simmered as she traced the tiny swell of her abdomen. "I know."
"You wanted them."
Chase's words hinted at accusation and she gulped, voice cracking. "I know. I didn't trick you into this, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just as stunned as you are."
Molly met his gaze and he studied her intently, searching for any signs of falsehood. He judged her innocent, focused on the lapping of waves.
"I'm too young for this."
Her laughter shattered the stiffing atmosphere. "Chase, you're thirty."
"Young at heart," he cracked a smile. "And to think, you're even younger. You..."
"Hm?"
"You're not fat—you're pregnant," he lowered his eyes to her stomach, as though peering down from the edge of a cliff. "I... I can't believe I never noticed it. You could be the size of a whale and I'd still insult you."
His smile was soft and guilty—but the curve was unsuited, awkward and wrong, like wearing long sleeves in summer.
"I've still not forgiven you for that remark, by the way," her fingers brushed his on the rail, cold and electrifying. "You're lucky I tolerate you."
"Art thou Romeo, how I tolerate you. An iconic scene."
Relief fluttered inside of her at his sarcasm. "C'mon. Lets go back inside before Irene thinks we've committed a joint suicide by tossing our bodies over the rail."
"I considered it," he drawled, and she hit him. "But it looked cold."
"As you?" quipped Molly as her eyes fleeted to the bar. "I'll be sure to tell the child of your sheer joy at the thought of their existence."
Chase cursed under his breath and sidestepped her into the clinic.
.:.
Molly leaned on her elbows as Irene shifted the probe over her abdomen. The previously dormant monitor sparked with life; indistinct, black and white shapes homed inside of an opaque kidney bean, the muffled drumming of a heartbeat echoing around the enclosed space. A tiny upturned nose was visible along with hands and fingers and toes. It was an indescribable feeling that a life had lived and grown inside of her for a whole three months without her knowledge.
"Is that a thumbs-up?" Chase inclined his head to the screen. "That thing is mocking me, I swear."
"Chase," Molly began. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I think we're going to be terrible parents," he rubbed his jaw and hunched in his seat. "God, why does it look like that?"
"The baby isn't fully formed," Irene answered, the probe tickling her skin. "An ultrasound won't provide the greatest insight onto appearances at this stage."
"It looks like an alien," he murmured, lips twisted into a grimace. "So, Dolly," he faced her with arched eyebrows. "What really happened over at Gill's place?"
Molly stretched and batted his shoulder. "You're insulting your own genetics."
"And yours."
A smile broke her lips apart as her gaze fleeted from her stomach to the monitor. "Do you not think this is the weirdest thing? That's a tiny version of me and you."
Chase's sigh was deep and strained. She turned and his complexion rivaled Jin's coat, sweat-coating his forehead.
"You're pale."
He snapped his head towards her, eyes flashing. "Don't make cryptic observations."
"You're going to faint, aren't you?"
Molly expected him to scoff, but he fixed his attention on the black and white projection, feet tapping. "I'm going to drop it."
"No you won't," she frowned. "You're careful."
"Hence our situation."
Chase stood abruptly, the chair screeching. He palmed his forehead, chest rising and falling rapidly. Irene removed the probe from her stomach and Molly haphazardly wiped the excess gel with a tissue and rose, facing him.
"Alright, just calm down. It's okay—"
"No, it's not," his voice was low and cutting, eyes closed. "Can't you see the damn problem? I can't make strawberry ice-cream for six months. I'm losing my purpose in life."
He stumbled and Molly tugged his sleeve to save him from falling. "Chase, please sit down. You're going to fall and crack your head open and die and I'll be forced to make your eulogy full of bad jokes."
He slumped into the chair, smile weak. "I'll rise from the dead and make you rewrite it."
The clicking of heels met her ears—Irene, thin fingers latched around a glass of water. She handed it to Chase and Molly noticed that the liquid trembled within his hold, staring at it without taking a sip. He lifted his eyes and met hers, eyebrows furrowed.
"God, Dolly. I'm fine. Quit looking at me as though my insides are spilling out."
Her finger pushed the glass up to his lips, forcing him to drink. His eyes narrowed above the rim. Once satisfied with the amount swallowed, she took the glass from him in fear of it crashing to the floor. He scooted to the side to create space, but Molly was forced to drape one leg over his.
"Hey, look at it this way," she started, tone cheerful to outweigh his pessimism. "You may have lost one purpose," she took his hand and placed it over her abdomen. He flinched with hesitancy, teeth pulling his lower-lip. "But you've gained an even better one."
.:.
Claiming health reasons, Irene and Jin insisted that the both of them remain in the clinic for an hour before returning home. The chemical scent of the building vanished when Chase opened the door, the early evening air cooling their skin. Before they ventured a few steps, a voice originating from the bar called out to them.
Kathy waved frantically, clutching her stomach as she jogged up the path. Chase stiffened and clicked his tongue while Molly felt nausea swirl inside of her.
"Honey," she placed a perfectly manicured hand on her shoulder. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"
"Unbelievable," Chase murmured. "Psychic and a nuisance."
Molly blinked, lips parted as she blundered for words. Kathy smiled, eyes soft.
"I've had a feeling for awhile... but today confirmed it. Refusing my amazing strawberry daiquiris and Chase's ice-cream? No way, honey. Something was up. I mean..." she traced the swell of her bump. "I would know." In the next moment, the blonde burst into tears and yanked the duo into a suffocating embrace. "Oh, I'm just so happy for you—for the both of you!"
Chase uttered a noise of surprise and attempted to untangle himself, but Kathy's limbs were unyielding. Molly giggled and looped an arm around Chase's waist, the other curling around Kathy's back. He exhaled and cursed and Molly registered the familiar movement of his clumsy patting.
The blonde finally released them to the sound of Owen's calling. Chase rubbed his sides, wincing.
"Tell me you won't be like this. My organs are irreversibly damaged."
"Don't worry," she grinned. "I'll be worse."
He groaned and walked ahead. "Oh, joy."
.:.
"Don't get me wrong," Molly started, sat cross-legged on the bed. "I want this baby. I want it more than anything. But… it's just so unexpected, you know? I had a plan. I didn't want my life to be like this. I suppose I wanted to do it properly—like Kathy. I wanted to be married first."
Chase lay next to her, a recipe book held above his head. He squinted in a fruitless attempt to read the tiny paragraphs and grew frustrated, stretching and fumbling in the bedside draw for his glasses. He realised that his eyesight had deteriorated when incorrect orders became too frequent to be a fluke. He wore contacts during work as the glass would steam up, but he was stubborn and would insist that his vision was fine, avoiding wearing them as often as he could.
Molly joked that it was because he rolled his eyes too much. She thought he suited glasses—the frames were wooden and square, but he complained that he looked like botched replica of Clark Kent.
"Married?" he scoffed, the word unworthy of a break in his attention. "You think that would change things? It wouldn't. It's just a stupid piece of paper that allows me more rights if you happen to meet your demise through a pitchfork impalement."
Molly whacked him with the pillow, his book tumbling to the floor and glasses askew. "No it isn't!" her voice was shrill and Chase exhaled and straightened, fixing her a glare.
"I've dreamed about what my wedding would be like as far back as I can remember," she continued, eyes dazed. "A huge towering cake with strawberry—no, wait. I don't want that anymore. Anything sweet makes me feel nauseous… this is just awful," her lips puckered. "I feel like my dreams are shattering right before my eyes. At this rate, I'll have a savoury cake made out of cheese… oh, Chase. Do we have any cheese and pickles in?"
"You're not serious about marriage." Chase grumbled as he rose and ventured into the kitchen, Molly quick on his heels, hugging the pillow to her chest. "You're just fantasising about the food because you're pregnant."
"I am not!" Molly piped as he searched the cupboards. "I've wanted to get married—to actually get married—for years now. I feel like I'm missing out on my fairy-tale-happy-ending."
He rolled his eyes and tossed her a sideward glance as he placed the jar of pickles and block of cheese onto the counter. "You really are a kid. You should've gave up on that dream years ago. I'm hardly your classic prince charming."
"You can be my dysfunctional and sarcastic prince charming who does all of the cooking and cleaning," she reasoned, voice hopeful. "While I can be the rambling princess of farming."
Chase sighed and placed his hands onto her shoulders. "Look, okay, fine. If you want to that badly..." his eyes averted to the kitchen tile, cheeks rosy in the harsh light. "Feelings for people change easily, but mine for you won't. I've got a dreaded feeling that I'll be stuck with you for forever anyway, so it doesn't make a difference to me whether we're married or not."
Her eyes brightened. "Really?"
"Whatever," he turned, voice cold and indifferent as though his previous words never existed. Chase grabbed the food on the way out and switched off the light, returning to the bedroom. Molly followed, but not before sneakily collecting a handful of snacks from the fridge. "We'll go and talk to Hamilton tomorrow."
She deposited the food onto the nightstand and placed her hands onto her hips. "No!"
"God, Dolly. What now?" Chase rubbed his temples—he was tired. He finished late from work and routinely, Molly waited up for him.
Occasionally she would fall asleep on the couch, the television reeling to deaf ears. It would reach the early hours of the morning when he would return, and if she was awake, he would berate her for wasting valuable rest. If she was asleep, he would spray her with water, finding her sleepy irritation amusing. Rarely, if he was feeling generous, he would carry her to bed.
"This is not how you're proposing to me!"
"Does it really matter?"
"Yes! Do you know how many romance films I've watched?"
"One can only guess."
"I want flowers and a ring and fancy restaurant reservations and champagne—oh, and you have to wear a suit, too, because you look good in a suit and—"
"Dolly."
"It's just what I want," her enthusiasm deflated.
"I know what you want down to the damn figurines topping the cake. I've been on the receiving end to your fantasies pretty much since the day I met you. Now, god, let me get some sleep. At this rate I'm going to have nightmares about your face on a human-eating-wedding-cake."
Chase flopped down onto the bed and tugged the sheets around him. He plucked off his glasses and placed them onto the nightstand, lying on his back with a hand covering his eyes. Molly brought the quilt around her and sat upright, nestling the jar under her arm as she crunched a pickle. Chase groaned and whacked her with a free limb.
"Can't you eat that any quieter?"
"Nope," she said, breaking off cheese.
He cracked an eye open. "If you spill any of that disgusting juice onto these bed sheets I will personally take you to court."
"With what charge?"
"Negligence."
Molly laughed, her movement sloshing the liquid in the jar. She cringed, swiping her hands over the spillage.
"Hey, Chesney."
"What."
"I'll be an amazing wife."
The sound of his short laughter muffled into the pillow as he turned over and flicked off the sidelight.
"That's not the word I would've used."