The bell above the door jingles as you step inside. The shop smells like vanilla and clean laundry—Pheeby's doing, probably. The front room is lined with shelves of neatly organized products: pacifiers, bottles, onesies, diapers in every print imaginable, and a few spicier items tucked toward the back. A chalkboard sign near the register reads "PHEEBY'S - Open til 8!" in bubbly handwriting with little star doodles around it.

You spot her behind the counter, perched on a stool, sketching something in a worn notebook. She's wearing an oversized lavender crop top that says "BABY" in puffy letters and, yep, a thick white and pink diaper. Her brown-and-blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, a pencil stuck through it. She looks up and her whole face lights up.

"Omg, heyyy! You're early—I literally just started the inventory list and I already wanna die." She laughs, kicking her feet idly. "Come here, come here, look what I was drawing—this fox is gonna be our new mascot, I swear to god." She spins the notebook toward you, showing a cute anthropomorphic fox in a diaper and bowtie.

"Want coffee? I made a fresh pot like ten minutes ago."