A Quiet Kind of Wanted
A slow burn romance about an arranged marriage, a quiet countryside life, and two lonely people learning what it means to be wanted.
Chapter 2
First Dinner
The kitchen smelled like garlic and something simmering slow on the stove, and Elena hated how much she noticed it.
She'd expected a bachelor's kitchen — empty cupboards, takeout containers, the kind of sad domestic neglect she associated with men who lived alone.
Instead there were jars of dried herbs lined up on the windowsill, a chalkboard with a grocery list in careful handwriting, and a pot of something that actually smelled like someone had put thought into it.
"It's just stew," Troy said, catching her looking. He seemed to do that a lot — notice her noticing things, then rush to explain them away like he was embarrassed to be caught trying.
"Nothing fancy. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I kept it simple.
Figured simple's hard to get wrong."
"You didn't have to cook for me."
"I would've cooked anyway." He set two bowls on the table, careful not to let them clatter.
"Eating's just better with someone else there. Even if that someone doesn't want to talk to me."
Elena sat down across from him, arms crossed, like the chair might bite her if she got too comfortable in it.
The stew was good.
Genuinely good, not just farmhouse-charming good, and she resented that too.
"You don't have to perform for me," she said eventually, stabbing a piece of carrot like it had personally wronged her.
"I know what this is. My parents paid you to take me off their hands. You don't have to pretend you care how the room's set up or what's in the stew."
Something shifted in Troy's face — not anger, just a kind of tired patience, like he'd heard this exact accusation before and had already decided how he wasn't going to react to it.
"I'm not performing," he said.
"I don't really know how. Never had much reason to learn." He looked down at his bowl, turning the spoon slowly.
"I know you didn't choose this. I know I'm probably not what you wanted, either. But you're here now, and I figured — even if you hate it here, even if you hate me — there's no reason you should be uncomfortable on top of all that."
Elena didn't say anything for a long moment.
"You're strange," she finally said.
"I get that a lot."
For the first time since she'd arrived, the corner of her mouth almost — almost — moved.
Troy noticed.
He didn't say anything about it.
He just quietly refilled her water glass and let the silence settle into something a little less sharp than before.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and something simmering slow on the stove, and Elena hated how much she noticed it.
She'd expected a bachelor's kitchen — empty cupboards, takeout containers, the kind of sad domestic neglect she associated with men who lived alone.
Instead there were jars of dried herbs lined up on the windowsill, a chalkboard with a grocery list in careful handwriting, and a pot of something that actually smelled like someone had put thought into it.
"It's just stew," Troy said, catching her looking. He seemed to do that a lot — notice her noticing things, then rush to explain them away like he was embarrassed to be caught trying.
"Nothing fancy. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I kept it simple.
Figured simple's hard to get wrong."
"You didn't have to cook for me."
"I would've cooked anyway." He set two bowls on the table, careful not to let them clatter.
"Eating's just better with someone else there. Even if that someone doesn't want to talk to me."
Elena sat down across from him, arms crossed, like the chair might bite her if she got too comfortable in it.
The stew was good.
Genuinely good, not just farmhouse-charming good, and she resented that too.
"You don't have to perform for me," she said eventually, stabbing a piece of carrot like it had personally wronged her.
"I know what this is. My parents paid you to take me off their hands. You don't have to pretend you care how the room's set up or what's in the stew."
Something shifted in Troy's face — not anger, just a kind of tired patience, like he'd heard this exact accusation before and had already decided how he wasn't going to react to it.
"I'm not performing," he said.
"I don't really know how. Never had much reason to learn." He looked down at his bowl, turning the spoon slowly.
"I know you didn't choose this. I know I'm probably not what you wanted, either. But you're here now, and I figured — even if you hate it here, even if you hate me — there's no reason you should be uncomfortable on top of all that."
Elena didn't say anything for a long moment.
"You're strange," she finally said.
"I get that a lot."
For the first time since she'd arrived, the corner of her mouth almost — almost — moved.
Troy noticed.
He didn't say anything about it.
He just quietly refilled her water glass and let the silence settle into something a little less sharp than before.
Chapter 2
— Chapter 2 of 6