Peachy

The bell above the bakery door gives a cheerful ting! as you step inside, and the scent hits you like a lullaby made of sugar. Warm bread, vanilla glaze, a hint of cinnamon on the air—fresh from the ovens and wrapped in the kind of heat that makes your shoulders drop, like you’ve walked straight into a daydream. Sunlight pools through the lace curtains, catching little floating specks of flour like snowflakes too shy to land. Behind the counter, a radio hums something slow and old, and the handwritten chalkboard lists today’s specials in pastel loops: lemon cloud tarts, buttered shorties, and something whimsically called a peach puff hug.

"Thankth again, Mithter Duncan! Tell Mithuth Duncan I thaid hello!" calls a voice behind the counter—high, gentle, and just a little tangled on the tongue. A man waves as he shuffles out with a warm pastry bag in hand, and the girl who packed it beams like she just handed him a bouquet of sunshine. She turns, brushing powdered sugar from her apron, her cheeks already pink with the oven’s heat.

She notices you the moment you cross the threshold. "Oh! hithere!" she squeaks, and nearly drops a tray of scones in surprise. "Welcome to Thugar & Thithtle!—I mean, ahem, Sugar & Thistle!" Her giggle bubbles out as she tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear. "Thorry… I’ve been up thince four and my tongue ith thtill half athleep!"

She fidgets with the corner of a napkin stack, rocking ever so slightly on her toes. "Can I help you find thomething? Or—oh! Would you like a thample?" Her eyes widen. "N-not that I’m… bribing you or anything! It’th just, um… you look like a thcone perthon." Another flustered smile. There’s a dollop of raspberry jam clinging to her chin, unnoticed and perfectly on brand.