The ageing corner shop on the outskirts of Canterbury was beloved by locals—its hot meals were delicious, portions generous, and the women behind the counter full of warmth. Emma Thompson had worked there fifteen years, first at the deli scales, then as section manager. She knew it all—who liked extra stuffed peppers, who needed reminding about the porridge, and who deserved a heaped portion, “just to be kind.”
That day, she hurried from the storeroom with a tray of pork pies. Just as she slid them into the display, her gaze caught on a familiar silhouette—a tall man in a worn-out coat, eyes shadowed with loneliness, lingering by the counter as if searching for someone.
Emma approached quickly.
“If you’re looking for Sophie, she’s off sick. Back next week. The usual for you, then? Sausages and spare ribs?”
The man blinked in surprise.
“You remember my order?”
“Course I do. You’re one of our regulars.” She flushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
He hesitated, then murmured,
“Funny—I kept meaning to come to *your* till, Emma, but always ended up with Sophie. Proper gutting, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know my name?”
He nodded at her badge.
Behind them, Brenda from bakery snapped,
“Oi, mate! There’s a queue! Ten people behind you!”
He startled.
“Right, sorry. Just the bangers, please.”
Then, softer, eyes locked on hers:
“Maybe one day, a kind woman’ll make me proper homemade ones. Sorry—Emma—you’ve no ring… if you’re not spoken for, could I walk you home after shift? I live just ‘cross the road. On my own.”
Emma’s breath hitched. She nodded, handing him the bag, her pulse racing like she was sixteen again.
“See you tonight, then.” He smiled. “Name’s Tom, by the way.”
All day, Emma floated. Even Brenda noticed.
“Blimey, Em, you ill? Cheeks red as a bride’s!”
“Fine, just… good day, is all.”
At closing, Emma touched up her lipstick, wound her scarf tight, and stepped outside. Tom was waiting.
“Fancy a stroll? Maybe the pictures?”
The weather was miserable—wet sleet clung to their lashes as they walked the high street, chatting like old friends. Then, softly, he asked:
“Emma—come up for a cuppa? Warm up a bit. I’m just ‘round the corner.”
“Dunno… we’ve only just met…”
“Haven’t we? I’ve watched you a year now. The way you are with the old dears, the kids… kind. Feels like I know you. Don’t you feel it?”
She smiled.
“Alright, Tom. Let’s go—I’m soaked through.”
His flat was plain but cosy. He hung her coat, dried her boots, brewed tea with lemon, even dug out custard creams.
When the blizzard worsened, he said quietly:
“Stay. I’ll take the sofa. Where you gonna go in this?”
Emma glanced around—warmth, quiet, her heart whispering *stay.*
“Alright…”
She took the bed, him the kitchen. But come morning, they woke entwined—sleeping apart had been impossible.
When Sophie returned, she spotted Tom meeting Emma after work.
“Cheeky cow! I’m off a week and you nick my best customer!” She laughed.
Truth was, Sophie was chuffed. Happy Emma shone like sunlight, warming everyone. Real joy’s visible for miles.
Even the sausages sold faster that week.
