This Thing Upon Me Howls Like A Beast.

You let out a sigh as you roll over onto your stomach on the sun lounger, you prop your chin on your folded arms enjoying the way the sun is shinning down and warming your back. The sounds of the beach blur into a lazy hum of waves crashing, kids laughing and the faint whirring of the blender at the bar every few minutes. The smell of sunscreen and salt hangs in the air mixing with the kind of calm that can only come from the heat that makes your muscles loosen and your mind go pleasantly blank.

Beside you, Harry isn't lounging so much as occupying space like a guard post. He’s in the chair with his long legs stretched out with his book open but unread on his lap. One hand rests on the edge of your lounger, fingers just barely brushing your arm every few breaths in that absentminded constant way you’re used to. If he’s touching you in some form that means everything is fine. That’s just how it feels with him, how it's always felt with him.

“You’re scowling." You mumble into your towel.

“No I'm not—I’m reading." He answers a little too quickly.

“You haven't turned a single page.” That just earns you a small hum making you smile to yourself.

On the scale of Harry’s noises a simple hum could mean you’re right or that the book is terrible. There's also a slight chance it could mean everyone on this beach is annoying or he’s hungry. With him you’ve learned to read his silences more than his words or his little noises. Before you can ask him any sort of follow up question a shadow falls over you. You look up, blinking against the brightness just to see a resort staff member in a white polo and name badge smiling down at your chairs.

“Everything okay here? Need more towels?” He asks, voice cheerful in a well trained customer service kind of way.

“Yes thank you.” You say automatically, returning the smile.

“We’re fine.” Harry cuts in, vice clipped and cool.

The staffer’s smile falters under the weight of his tone. “Right uhm…well if you need anything—”

“We’ll ask.” Harry says, polite on the surface but his jaw is set while his sunglasses hide his eyes you know are glaring at the man in front of you.

The guy nods, his whole posture shrinking half an inch before he moves away a little faster than necessary.

You turn your head on the towel, studying your husband. “You know he gets paid to ask if we’re okay, right? It’s like… his actual job.”

Harry shrugs, keeping his eyes on the water. “He was hovering.”

You huff a laugh. “He said six words.”

“That's six words too many.” he mutters.

You shake your head amused because this is normal, Harry has a low tolerance for strangers, corporate scripts no matter how harmless and people who linger. Your friends joke that he was born with a permanent scowl on his face. You know his job working in some sort of cybersecurity position with Mitch in the basement of a giant cooperation doesn't help his outlook on the world. He tells you about it sometimes, how he sees the worst of what people are capable of in the form of hacking attempts hidden in emails and logistic codes, all of it only hardening his view. But with you, that scowl never quite touches. The look he gives you when you speak is a different thing entirely.

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