Hotpot of Love
Thomas and Emily had just returned from the supermarket, arms weighted with bags. They lugged them into the kitchen and began unpacking. Thomas, distracted, suddenly turned to Emily with a faint smile.
“Em, love, go rest. I’ll make something special… my signature dish. A hotpot!”
“You know how to make a hotpot?” Emily froze, lips slightly parted in shock.
“Course I do. What’s the big deal?” He seemed genuinely confused.
“No, it’s just…” Emily pressed her hands to her face and broke into silent sobs, her shoulders trembling as if a dam of emotion had burst.
Thomas hesitated, then moved closer, sinking onto the stool beside her.
“Em… what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She struggled to speak, wiping her tears with the back of her hand before managing,
“No one… in all these years… has cooked a hotpot for me. Not once. My mum used to, ages ago. After that, it was always me—always cooking for someone else. And him… Mark… all he did was eat, drink, and enjoy himself. While I carried everything.”
Thomas looked down. He knew Emily had recently divorced. And he knew how much it still hurt.
Leaving Mark had been inevitable. He’d disappeared on a bender the night before their family holiday, never showing at the train station where Emily and their son, Oliver, had waited. That was the moment she knew—enough. No more enduring.
At first, there was relief. Nights without slamming doors or slurred, drunken rants in the kitchen. No fridge humming at 3 a.m. No stench of stale beer clinging to his mates. Just silence. Freedom. But after six months, that silence turned hollow. Suffocating.
Yes, Emily had Oliver. She had her job, her closest friends. But she didn’t have what mattered—someone to lean on. Someone who cared.
Desperate, she turned to her brother, James.
“Got anyone decent? No nonsense, no messing about?”
James grinned.
“Actually, yeah. Thomas. Bloke’s quiet, but solid. Not exactly Prince Charming, but he’s a good man. Trust me.”
On their first date, Thomas struck Emily as unremarkable. Tall, lanky, with features far from magazine covers. Plain, but… his eyes were kind. Real.
“Give it time,” she told herself. It couldn’t get worse.
Their early dates were polite, even awkward. Then Thomas vanished for a week. Emily assumed he’d lost interest—until he reappeared with a cake and flowers.
“Got roped into a work trip. Sorry I didn’t warn you.”
After that, they saw each other more often. Walks, conversations. She kept Oliver hidden—afraid to jinx the fragile warmth blooming inside her.
One day, they met outside the supermarket. Groceries weighed heavy in their arms. Thomas waved it off.
“I’ve got the car. Toss ’em in the boot.”
“You have a car?”
As they loaded the bags, Mark appeared. Drunk, as always. Face twisted. He glanced at Thomas and sneered.
“Well, well. Found yourself a fella, eh? Remember, I’ve got rights to see my boy!”
“Your ex?” Thomas murmured.
“Yeah,” Emily sighed.
“Not today, Mark,” she said firmly.
He swayed, leering. “Scared, are ya? Watch yourself, mate.”
Thomas clenched his jaw. For Emily’s sake, he kept quiet.
At home, Emily unpacked in silence before sinking onto a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Shaken?” Thomas asked softly.
“Yeah.”
“You still love him?”
“No. Buried that long ago. Just the hurt’s left.”
“Then there’s still a future. Rest. I’ll make the hotpot.”
“You really can?”
“Promise.”
And again, the tears came—not from grief, but exhaustion, relief. Because for once, there was someone who didn’t take. Didn’t demand. Just wanted to cook for her.
Thomas fussed in the kitchen. Emily dozed off on the sofa. He tucked the blanket around her, drew the curtains. Paused—then brushed a hand over her hair, gentle as if she were something sacred.
A noise at the door.
“Oliver…?”
But it was Mark.
A minute later, the front door slammed.
“Try that again!” Thomas called after him before returning to the stove. Checking the potatoes.
Half an hour later, Emily stretched awake, smiling.
“Was someone here?”
“Just a dream,” he murmured.
Inside, he swore—*I’ll protect her. Always.*
That evening, Emily said,
“I want you to meet Oliver. And… tomorrow, I’ll change the locks.”
A month later, they married. James was thrilled, often telling Oliver,
“That’s your dad now. Proper one. Look after him.”
The boy nodded.
And that night, Thomas cooked hotpot again, marvelling at how something so simple—love, kindness, and an ordinary meal—could be the start of everything.
