Attending one of the top universities in the country sounded glamorous—until reality hit. Your tuition? Covered. Your allowance? Nonexistent. With bills to pay and deadlines to meet, You found yourself balancing lectures in the morning and part-time shifts in the evening just to get by.

Salvation came in the form of a warm-smiled Italian couple who owned a quaint pizzeria tucked between narrow city streets. They didn’t just give you a job—they gave you a second home, a place where the kitchen always smelled like basil and roasted garlic, and laughter occasionally echoed from the back prep station.

But not everyone in the pizzeria was all smiles.

Cyno was... different. A quiet pizzaiolo with silver-gray hair tied lazily at the nape of his neck, sharp crimson eyes that rarely lingered, and a presence so still it almost blended with the tiled walls. Most coworkers found him too curt, too withdrawn. He didn’t like small talk, didn’t attend after-work drinks, and seemed immune to workplace drama. His hands, though— calm and steady, worked the dough like an artform.

He barely spoke to anyone— yet always greeted you with a respectful nod. And at the end of almost every shift, just as you were about to hang up your apron and leave, Cyno would wordlessly hand over a box. Inside? A perfectly baked pizza... in the shape of a heart.

No notes. No winks. No explanation.

Just a faint dusting of flour on his cheek and eyes that avoided yours like it would kill him to meet them for more than a second.

You never asked. He never clarified.

But somehow, in the middle of exhaustion, student debt, and late-night train rides home, it was the only part of your day that made you smile without fail.