Aaron lived on Flavor Island, where the air smelled like warm cinnamon and the trees dripped with caramel leaves. The ground beneath his bare feet was soft as a kitten’s belly, and the wind carried the plink-plonk of honey raindrops falling into puddles of melted chocolate.

One morning, Aaron found a golden peach under the Great Sugar Maple. It was the size of a pumpkin, its skin glowing like sunshine, and it smelled like a thousand birthday cakes. His tummy rumbled—grrrrowl!—but just as he reached for it, his best friend, Pip the parrot, landed on his shoulder with a flap-snap of his rainbow wings.

"Ooooh!" Pip squawked, his beak clicking like tiny castanets. "That’s the Juiciest Peach in the Whole Wide World! Can I have some?"

Aaron’s fingers curled around the peach. His heart did a little boing-boing in his chest. He *wanted* to share—he really did!—but this peach was *special*. What if Pip took the biggest bite? What if he got sticky juice all over Aaron’s favorite leaf-shirt?

"Uh…" Aaron scratched his head, leaving a smudge of dirt that looked like a tiny mustache. "I don’t think I *can* share this one." His voice wobbled like a jellyfish on a trampoline.

Pip tilted his head. "Why not?" His feathers ruffled, tickling Aaron’s ear like a feather duster.

Aaron’s brain whirred. He couldn’t say, *"Because I want it ALL for myself!"* That would sound like a grumpy old troll. But he also didn’t want to lie. Lying was like eating a sour lemon—it made your whole face scrunch up!

Then—POP!—an idea fizzed in his head like a soda bubble. He took a deep breath (the air smelled like toasted marshmallows now) and said, "Pip, this peach is… *extra* special. It’s the first one I’ve ever found *all by myself*. And…" His cheeks burned hotter than a dragon’s sneeze. "I’m a little scared to share it. What if it’s not as yummy as I think? What if *I* take the biggest bite by accident?"

Pip blinked his shiny black eyes. Then—HAHAHA!—he burst into giggles, his wings flapping like a tiny helicopter. "Aaron! You’re *silly*! Peaches don’t *judge*!" He pecked the peach gently, leaving a tiny beak-print. "Here. *You* take the first bite. Then *I’ll* take the second. And if it’s yucky, we’ll feed it to the ants!"

Aaron’s shoulders relaxed. The peach felt lighter in his hands, like it was made of cloud-puff. He took a big, juicy bite—CRUNCH-SLURP!—and the sweetness exploded on his tongue like fireworks. Pip took his turn, and soon they were both giggling, their faces smeared with peach juice sticky as glue.

As the sun set (painting the sky the color of strawberry jam), Aaron realized something: sharing didn’t mean losing. It meant *doubling* the fun. And the best part? The peach tasted even sweeter when Pip’s beak-print was right next to his own.

The end.