If there was one thing Luca loved more than teasing Milo or napping in sunny corners, it was pastries.
Flaky, buttery, jam-stuffed, cream-drizzled pastries.
So when the village bakery—The Crust & Crumble—put out a sign reading "Help Wanted: Must Love Dough and Have Basic Motor Skills", Luca slapped his résumé (a piece of parchment that read "I Have Hands and Opinions on Pie") on the counter.
"Perfect," said Mrs. Honeywhisk, the baker, who was known for three things: massive buns (the cinnamon kind), a laugh that could shake flour off ceilings, and absolutely zero patience for pretentious chefs.
And just like that, Luca became an apprentice baker.
---
On his first day, Milo and Alma visited the bakery armed with an idea—and also a suspicious-looking thermos.
"Look!" Alma grinned. "We made you something to help with your baking."
"Should I be afraid?" Luca asked, elbow-deep in croissant dough.
"It's a potion that enhances sweetness!" Milo said proudly. "A few drops in your pastry cream and bam—perfectly balanced sugar levels."
"We call it 'Sweetify!'" Alma added.
Mrs. Honeywhisk leaned over from the oven. "As long as it doesn't make my buns sing again, go ahead."
"That was one time!" Milo shouted, offended. "And it was a lullaby, at least."
---
Luca decided to test the potion on his experimental batch of raspberry-pistachio tarts.
He stirred two tiny drops into the custard.
The custard twinkled.
Not shimmered—twinkled, like it had secrets and a Broadway dream.
"Should it be giggling?" he asked.
"Totally normal," Milo lied.
They baked the tarts.
They cooled them.
They tasted one each.
And the verdict?
Incredible.
Raspberry sang. Pistachio glowed. The crust practically danced on their tongues.
"It's like happiness on a plate," Alma whispered, misty-eyed.
Even Mrs. Honeywhisk blinked. "What in the flour fairy's name...?"
By noon, the Sweetify-infused tarts were sold out.
By the next morning, so was every pastry in the shop that had even glanced at the potion bottle.
And by the end of the week...
Sweetify was the most demanded flavor enhancer in the entire village.
---
The problem?
It worked a little too well.
First, an old man complained that his beet-and-turnip pie tasted like candy apples.
Then, a grumpy knight said his steak roll "smelled like birthday cake" and nearly cried while eating it.
Next, a dog accidentally licked a drop from a spilled scone and chased his tail for two hours while smiling.
Soon, everything tasted sweet.
Bitter coffee? Now sugar syrup.
Pickled fish pies? Now custard-filled.
Someone even accused the potion of turning their rainwater into lemonade.
"We've created a flavor chaos bomb," Milo groaned, slumped on a flour sack.
Alma flipped through her notes. "I think I accidentally added double Honeysnare root and a pinch of joy moss."
"Joy moss?" Luca asked, folding croissants.
"It... amplifies pleasure. And sweetness. And once made a butterfly cry from happiness."
"I told you it was giggling!" Luca said, pointing at the thermos.
---
The mayor himself paid them a visit after trying a sour pickle that turned into cotton candy mid-bite.
He burst into the bakery in dramatic citrus-scented fashion, flanked by a marching band for some reason.
"Milo! Alma! Luca! I declare your concoction a culinary revelation!"
"We didn't mean to—" Milo began.
"You've sweetened hearts, turned tongues into sugar drums, and created economic upheaval in the vinegar industry!"
"That... doesn't sound good."
The mayor wasn't listening. He threw a handful of glitter (where did it come from?) and declared, "From this day forth, we shall celebrate an annual Sweetify Festival!"
Alma gasped. "With dessert floats and candy rain?"
"I'll start designing the official dancing tart costumes," the mayor winked.
Luca leaned against the counter. "So, wait... I get to bake more and get famous doing it?"
Milo groaned. "This is all spiraling out of control."
---
It spiraled further.
Children started dipping carrots into Sweetify to make them taste like jellybeans.
Teens were Sweetifying bread and calling it "Sugloaves."
A traveling merchant tried to steal the formula and sell it in jars labeled "Happiness Goo."
Milo had to put up signs:
"NOT FOR PICKLES."
"DO NOT FEED TO ANGRY BIRDS."
"ALMA STOP SWEETIFYING ROCKS."
Still, the bakery line stretched around the corner.
Mrs. Honeywhisk retired early that day, saying, "This sweet business is beyond my buttered comprehension," and handed Luca a pastry with a grin.
"You've got talent, sugar boy."
Luca cried a little. Then immediately added Sweetify to cake.
---
One evening, after the thousandth customer asked if they could Sweetify their socks (don't ask), Milo sat the trio down at his cottage.
"This potion's power is ridiculous," he sighed.
"But it brings people joy!" Alma argued, curled up on a beanbag shaped like a cinnamon roll.
"Too much joy," Milo replied. "People are licking spoons from empty jars. That man tried to Sweetify his taxes."
"He said they 'tasted less bitter now,'" Luca noted.
"We need balance," Milo said firmly.
So they decided to make a counter-potion: Bitterburst, to neutralize or "un-sugar" overly sweetened dishes.
It involved kale tears, sock lint (again), and a lemon that insulted you when squeezed.
The potion was... effective.
So effective that a single drop turned a frosted donut into a flavorless sponge of regret.
They called it "The Anti-Snack."
---
With Sweetify and Bitterburst now in harmony, balance was restored.
Mostly.
People still sweetified their soup and dogs still licked scones, but at least no one was trying to sugar their rainwater anymore.
And Luca?
He flourished.
He created signature pastries like:
The Luca Loop (a spiral tart that giggles when cut)
Croissant Coma (so good it makes you nap mid-bite)
Dramatic Eclairs (which explode confetti when bitten—thanks, Alma)
His baking, once a hobby, had become a passion.
A sweet, flour-dusted calling.
And every time a customer smiled from a bite of his work, he'd flash a grin and say, "It's the potion. But mostly me."
---
Back in Milo's cottage, Sweetify was stored in a locked shelf marked:
"Use Responsibly. Or Prepare For Dessert Rebellion."
And Alma?
She was already working on her next idea:
"Imagine," she said, eyes shining, "a potion that turns any dish into spicy curry!"
Milo stared.
Luca paled.
The cupboard trembled.
And a lone cupcake on the table quietly scooted itself away.