A/N: The time skips will either be two months or two years for consistency (they'll always be mentioned at the top, and if they aren't, there is no time skip—or a drastic one, anyway).

Also, in case you're wondering, I will not be writing about Molly and Chase's introductions to the town because I don't feel that it's relevant; assume that they have met everyone during the time skip. The Harvest Goddess and the bells which are also irrelevant to the plot will not be included. Everything else is normal—Chase is Yolanda's apprentice, works in the Brass Bar and Molly is starting a farm.

Enjoy :)

allyelle~

.:. Four .:.

Two Months Later

Molly and Chase were neighbours.

Not friends, nothing with any sort of emotional attachment.

Just. Neighbours.

But then you can see her surprise, when he showed up at her door, asking a very strange question.

"Let me cook for you tonight," he had said, in the most bored voice imaginable—like asking one to close a window.

"Cook?" Molly choked on the word, clutching onto her door frame for support.

It was nearing the end of winter, yet the island had been blessed with snowfall. White dust clung to Chase's hair and jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets as he nestled into his houndstooth scarf. Molly wanted to question his interesting choice of footwear. After all, she was shivering in her turtleneck. She pitied those poor toes.

"As in, what I do," he drawled, eyes roaming around her farmland in distaste. "For a living. Some intellectuals call us chefs, not that you would know—"

"You—just shut up," she pointed at him and he followed her finger, cross-eyed. "I thought you said we aren't friends."

"We aren't," he clarified immediately with the slight shake of his head. "I'm bored. Plus, I want to try this new dish. Maya likes anything I cook, but you're the only one who cried whilst eating my minestrone soup," he shrugged, lips curved. "I like honesty."

Maya—who had moved back to the island last month—always implored Chase to cook for her, and he did. Molly wondered if he acted out of guilt or perhaps as thanks for landing him the apprenticeship, but she didn't care to ask.

"You're so right. I was honestly crying at how disgustingly salty that soup was—oh, wait! Those were my tears after I just broke up with my ex-boyfriend!"

"Whatever," Chase rolled his eyes, tightening his scarf. "I'm not getting into that philosophy with you again. Are you coming or not? I'm regretting even suggesting it. You're being annoying."

"You're… actually... serious."

It took her a moment to comprehend that for the first time in over two years, he was making some sort of apathetic effort to spend time with a neighbour, without leaving it up to the fate of their chance encounters.

"No, okay, fine," she agreed. "A dinner between… wait, what even are we?"

"Last time I checked, I was human. Not sure about yourself."

He averted his eyes past the door where an abundance of empty strawberry ice-cream tubs situated, the speakers from the TV playing the ending scene from a rom-com.

Breezy laughter fell from her lips as she mused her hair. "Don't judge me because of my slight obsession with strawberry-ice cream. It's one of my simple pleasures in life."

He rolled his eyes once more and Molly debated asking him if he was inflicted by frequent headaches, but he was already walking down the path.

"See you at eight," he waved with the back of his hand, voice rising as he ventured further away. "I'm guessing you know where I live. Try not to fall over the bridge on your way over. If you do, don't expect me to fish you out. I wear sandals."

.:.

Molly lived in a rickety old farmhouse and worked shifts between Horn Ranch and Marimba Farm to pay her way. Even though she had a degree in environmental science, she never once considered the prospect of becoming a farmer until Chase sardonically suggested it.

But she decided to give it a try—she had plenty of land at her disposal and it would be a shame for it to be wasted. She had no animals, but her turnip and potato crops thrived.

Later that evening, clothed in her blue dress which she layered with a jacket and a woollen scarf, she tucked a basket underneath her arm brimmed with fresh ingredients as she trudged through the snow towards Chase's house.

He was clad in an apron when he greeted her. His hair was messy and frizzed, clips failing their purpose. His fingers raked through the strands in a poor attempt to tame them. The aroma of food wafted outside, making her mouth water. His eyes grazed her frame, frowning, as though he had ordered apples and she was oranges.

"You've messed up my sarcasm," his frown deepened as he leaned sluggishly against the frame. "You should have worn red. That way, I could've made a comment about Little Red Riding Hood. Blue? What can I do with that?"

"Oh, darn."

Clearly she had been spending too much time with Kathy. Some of her southern jargon tended to slip into her speech, though luckily, Molly never managed to call people 'hon'.

"And what would that make you?" she continued. "The wolf? I hope my grandmother isn't in the pot."

"I'm a chef, and you expect me to cook grandmothers? Far too tough. Surprisingly, people don't tend to appreciate false teeth floating in their soup."

"And I thought I was in for a treat!" she exclaimed, hand on heart.

He shook his head and retreated back into the kitchen. But with the open door, Molly presumed that she was being invited inside. She followed him into the kitchen and placed her basket down onto the counter. Slipping off her jacket, she hung it on the back of a dining chair as she looped the scarf from around her neck, relishing in the warmth of his house, like a cat in the sun.

Organised was the word that came to mind when she examined Chase's house. Spotlessly clean and minimalistic, everything had a place—dogeared recipe books were ordered alphabetically and when he opened a cupboard, she caught a glimpse of the perfectly assembled line of spices.

His attention would occasionally drift from the pans to the row of utensils. If he noticed that one was skewed, he would straighten it immediately. He always held a cloth in his free hand, wiping invisible mess.

"Courtesy of Little Blue Riding Hood," she gestured to her attire. "I've brought some fruits for your labour," she announced, mock-bowing. "Well, they're not fruits at all," she frowned at the realisation. "They're vegetables."

"Then you'll forgive me if I check for worms."

He flipped the frying pan, sprays of colour dancing in the air. He put another pan onto boil and removed the covering on the basket, eyeing the produce skeptically.

"And here I thought, Dolly with a farm," he started, turning his attention back to the stove. "What would she attempt to grow? Probably strawberries to make more ice-cream, right? Or did that environmental science degree teach you the science of growing pots of ice-cream straight from the stem?"

"They didn't, actually."

Chase began plating up the food. His eyebrows were knit in concentration as he drizzled the sauce, lip pulled between his teeth.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked.

"Vodka or orange," his voice was distracted as he arched backwards to analyse his work. He spun the plate and studied it from a different angle. He nodded and spared her a glance. "I don't care."

Molly shot him a questioning look as she searched the cupboards for glasses.

"Wow. You really are a middle man, aren't you? No grey areas with Chesney," she joked, pouring two glasses of orange juice.

He rolled his eyes. "Zip it and set the table."

.:.

Chase cooked something fancy.

Molly knew it was fancy because she couldn't remember the name of it and she would rather stare at it than consume it. But it was nice. She told him so, and he told her to find some better adjectives.

"Same dress?" he asked suddenly as he pushed his plate aside. "I recognise it. Surprised you still fit into that thing."

"You know, that's incredible," she sipped the sweet, fizzing wine that he cracked open. "You remember this dress, but not my name? Your mind is backwards."

"Names have connotations," he swilled the contents in his glass, eyes following the golden whirlpool. "First you remember a name, then that pushes for a friendship. Friends think they have an ability to wade in and try and get to know you. I don't want any of that… I'd rather just keep up my front and not make any connections."

"What a lonely life to lead," she exhaled, eyes flecked with pity. "I'll tell you what. I'll tell you the story of this dress."

"Oh, joy. Another one of your narrations? Aren't I in for a treat?"

"Shut up, Chesney. You know what you bargained for this morning when you invited me here."

"It was more of a whim, actually," he frowned and plucked the clips from his hair. He swept both hands through the strands, making him resemble the aftermath of an electrocution. "This may… be one of my many regrets," his words were almost lost in his glass.

Molly leaned her fist against her cheek, deciding to begin her story despite his indifference. "Do you ever just look at something, and you know you absolutely have to have it?"

Chase hummed in mild thought, attempting to look upwards at his hair. He shook his head and it flopped in his eyes. Molly wanted to buy him a hairband.

"When I look at fresh produce, maybe. But that's more of a necessity than a need. I'm a chef," a beat of self-decrepitating laughter left his lips. "Without my ingredients, I'm not a chef. Just a douche with hair-clips."

"That's the smartest thing that's ever come out of your mouth," Molly grinned into her glass. "Well, anyway. I was in the city and walking home near Christmas time. There was this boutique—near where you worked, I think—and I hinted at Darren so many times to get me this pretty blue dress. But you know what he got me? A plant. A blasted plant. We'd been dating for a year. After that, I went out and bought the dress myself."

"Is there a point to this story? Or do you just have an incurable condition to word vomit?"

"Ah, right. The point is, if you want something, you have to go out and get it. You can't rely on anyone else to get it for you. It's all on you."

Chase downed his glass and topped it up again, the corners of his lips quirked.

"And that, Dolly, might be the smartest thing that's ever come out of your mouth."

.:.

"I'd say thanks for the great company, but you really weren't," Chase quipped.

It was dark, his figure silhouetted against the orange light of the doorway. Condensation clouds escaped his lips when he spoke, arms wrapped around himself as he shifted his weight in a poor attempt to keep warm.

Molly stood outside, scarf pulled up to her nose while numb fingers latched around a box of leftovers. Chase had scolded her for dumping her belongings onto the dining table and he hung them onto their rightful place on the coat rack. Her scarf now held the scent of orange and cinnamon.

She laughed, but it was shaky, teeth chattering. "I suppose I'll see you around, neighbour."

"Oh, wait."

He suddenly dashed back inside, returning moments later holding a tub—similar to the one within her grasp. "Here's one of your 'simple pleasures in life'," his voice was monotone as he recited her earlier words. "Home-made, obviously."

He stacked the tub on top of the other. Through the transparent lid was strawberry ice-cream, cluttered with fresh strawberries and swirls of cream. Stunned, Molly lifted her eyes, but Chase stared past her, expression blank as his foot idly kicked the door to keep it from closing.

"We're," she murmured, pressing the tubs closer to her chest. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"God, why do you have to label things?" he groaned. "If anything, I prefer the term friendly acquaintances."

With one last eye roll, he slammed the door shut in her face.