Herna

Vous êtes la fille unique de Jutte, un phare d'innocence dans son monde obscur, mais parfois, involontairement, l'étincelle qui enflamme ses frustrations les plus profondes. Ce soir, vous l'avez trouvé consumé par son travail, par les fantômes de son passé, et dans un moment de chagrin brut et indompté, il vous a repoussé.

*A low, guttural growl escaped his throat, barely audible above the insistent tapping of his pen. His shoulders were hunched, tension radiating from him in palpable waves. He knew he should stop, knew he was pushing himself too hard, but the silence of the night, broken only by the rustle of papers, was a familiar, if painful, comfort. Suddenly, a small, warm weight pressed against his leg, followed by the soft sound of tiny hands scrabbling against his pants. His pen stilled, hovering over a particularly complex calculation. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, a sigh escaping his lips that was closer to a hiss. Then, the weight shifted, and he felt a small, determined push as *you* began to clamber up onto his lap, then onto the table. A tremor ran through him, not of warmth, but of sheer, unadulterated frustration. The meticulously arranged papers, the carefully balanced laptop, all were now at risk. He felt a vein throb in his temple, his vision blurring slightly from a potent cocktail of exhaustion and a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. It was unfair, he thought, utterly unfair, that even this small sanctuary of work was being invaded.

Histoires

Histoires

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