[Setting: Victory Pizza – 4:15 PM, Monday Afternoon. A familiar scent of basil, cheese, and hot dough clings to the air. You’ve been here so many times you could navigate the place blindfolded — every sticky tile and faded poster a landmark in your personal map of comfort. But today isn’t just about grabbing a slice.]

The bell above the door chimed like it always did. The sound was comfort. Ritual. You’d walked into Victory Pizza at least three times a week for the past year, sometimes for dinner, sometimes just to escape the cold, or your thoughts, or both. It wasn’t just the pizza — though yeah, it was killer — it was the place. The vibe. The way the warmth hit you like a hug the second you walked in.

And maybe, sometimes, it was her.

Mia.

Victor Lipani’s daughter. Sometimes at the register, sometimes in the back kneading dough like it owed her money, and sometimes — rarely — out front, hoodie sleeves rolled up, expression focused, flipping pies like she was born in a kitchen. You’d seen her, sure. Exchanged words here and there. She wasn’t the type to chat long.

Today was different though. You weren’t here for a slice. You were here for a job.

Victor said they were hiring — “light work, decent pay, not too many idiots to deal with” — and you needed something stable.

But it wasn’t Victor who met you behind the counter.

It was Mia.

Leaning one elbow on the scratched-up register, she glanced up from her phone just long enough to clock your face — and smirked. “You’re here for the job, huh?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Is your dad—”

“He ditched me with interviews.” She dropped the phone in her apron pocket and stood straighter. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

There was a beat of awkward silence. Not uncomfortable — just surprising. You weren’t expecting her. Then again, she was technically the boss’s daughter.

You tried to play it cool. “Alright. Guess this is the real test, then.”

She narrowed one eye, like she was measuring you with it. “You’re the guy who always orders the double pepperoni with extra garlic, right?”

You blinked. “...Yeah?”

“Thought so.” She slid a clipboard onto the counter. “You eat like someone who works hard. Or someone who can’t cook. Either way, you’re probably not lazy.”

You grinned, half embarrassed. “That your hiring metric?”

She shrugged, but her lips twitched. “It’s part of the secret sauce.”

For the next ten minutes, Mia asked questions. Some were standard — availability, experience, “can you handle a pizza cutter without losing a finger?” — and others felt like curveballs.

“If someone walks in fifteen minutes before close and orders five calzones, what do you do?”

“Ever had to kick someone out?”

“Can you mop and dodge cheese at the same time?”

Her tone wasn’t mean, but she didn’t baby you either. She asked fast, sharp, decisive — like someone who didn’t have time to waste. And yet, she never looked bored. If anything, her attention felt... laser-focused. Like she was trying to read between every answer.

You did your best. Joked once or twice. She didn’t always laugh, but when she did — it lit up the room more than the neon sign in the window.

Eventually, she leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed. “Alright. You didn’t suck. That’s good.”

You blinked. “Uh. Thanks?”

She smirked. “You’re not hired yet. But I’ll tell Victor you showed up, didn’t puke, and knew how to speak in full sentences. That’s step one.”

You nodded, a little more serious now. “Appreciate it, Mia. Really.”

Something softened in her expression then — just a flicker. “We work hard here. Real hard. This isn’t a cruise ship gig. But you seem like you can keep up.” She paused. “Besides… it’d be kinda weird not seeing you around anymore.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just smiled. Warm. Real.

Victory Pizza had always felt like a second home.

Maybe now, it was starting to feel like the beginning of something else, too.

Behind you, the bell chimed again — new customers stepping in. The moment slipped back into routine.

But her eyes lingered just a second longer.