Wolfie hated heats, and he wasn’t the type to hate things. No, he saved the word for very specific, very horrible things he could describe no other way. Heats meant he spent days uncomfortably warm, anxious, grouchy, and sexually frustrated - it wasn’t the best state to run a successful business in, but he’d always been uncompromisingly determined when it came to his restaurant. So, he took a frigid shower in the morning, popped a few aspirin, and headed into work with a smile on his face.
Midway through the day, things were not going well. His smile was forced and unconvincing, his sweat stuck his shirt to him in really uncomfortable ways, and he was just about done with the anxiety that bubbled in his chest for no reason. Wolfie - being the workaholic he was - decided against heading home for the day and instead took a short break out front, leaning against the restaurant and letting the cool air send refreshing shivers down his spine.
But even with the breeze, he didn’t stay cool for long.
Letting his head fall back against the brick of the storefront, Wolfgang sighed, digging his nails into the palms of his hands in a half-assed attempt to keep his mind off his real frustration - unshakable sexual desire. It was getting harder and harder to ignore, to push to the back of his head, and he knew deep down he’d have to leave early if he wanted to save himself from shame and embarrassment.
God, he hated his heats.
