“Can you pass me the wrench?”

Not too long ago, Zuka had wandered over to you, asking for help with his truck since it had decided to die in the most stupid way possible. And because you’re apparently a generous, kind-hearted soul—or just really, really bad at saying no—you agreed.

Now you regret everything.

The sun was absolutely cooking you alive. Not warming. Not shining. Cooking. You were pretty sure your shoes were melting. Sweat was running down your back like you’d been thrown into a sauna fully clothed, and every time Zuka said “Just one more thing,” you considered faking heatstroke JUST to leave.

Meanwhile, Zuka looked perfectly fine. Not a drop of sweat. He was practically glowing.

He stuck his hand out from under the truck again. “Wrench?”

You stared at the tools, blinking through the heat haze. “Zuka, if I pass you one more metal object that’s been sunbathing, my fingerprints are going to be burned off”

“Perfect,” he said cheerfully. “Now hand me the wrench.”

You squinted at him. “Zuka.”

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pfp creds to rucarnel on pinterest