Unforgettable

64.

"Ooh baby, sweet thang"

Song: Sweet Thang - Shuggie Otis

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A/N: Boo! I missed all of you and this story. It's been a while so if you need to refresh your memory a bit I understand. We're very close to the end, and I've come with two long ass chapters so this will be a double update. So get comfy.

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Apparently the cure for hangovers is fairy bread.

At least according to Harry.

I'd offered to make him avocado on toast when he woke up looking very worse for wear, but after a lot of grumbling and hiding his head under the pillow, proclaiming that he's never drinking tequila again - he had asked if I could make him more fair bread.

While he joined me in the kitchen, I offered to show him how to make it - not there's any great science behind it but Harry shook his head refusing and said 'it wouldn't taste the same.'

I'm not sure about the logic behind that, but according to him he only likes the way I make it.

Considering he's only tried it once, and scoffed the whole plate, I'm not sure what he's comparing it to but I humoured him anyway.

For someone that laughed at my sprinkle bread, he ate six slices of it.

Between that and his passionate love for avocado on toast, I'm starting to think all I have to do is put something on bread for this guy to think it's amazing.

We ended up spending the day in bed, because to be honest, while I wasn't hungover; drinking hits me harder than it used to the next day.

That's something they never tell you about turning 30, or afterwards, suddenly things like hangovers become more like slow deaths that take you a week to recover from.

Harry still has his youth on his side, so he was right as rain by the late afternoon.

We'd both showered after he devoured the hang-over curing sprinkle bread, only to crawl back into the bed we came from.

It'd been an afternoon of lazy limbs wrapped around each other, and occasional dozing off until Harry decided he wanted to fiddle around on his guitar, laying in only his basketball shorts with his back and his shoulders sat up on the pillows.

I'd been laying next to him in my usual large shirt, watching and listening intently. As I've said before, there's just something about him that's captivating to watch even when he's not doing anything all that extraordinary.

This is another one of those small mundane moments, a lazy monday that I want to file away under one of those memories I could replay forever.

Over the last half hour he'd been playing the same melody absentmindedly, humming to himself, watching his fingers strum along the strings with his brows creased.

It's not a song I know, it doesn't even sound familiar, but it sounds lovely - almost comforting in a weird way.

"What song is that? I like it," I finally ask, my hand is resting under my cheek with my head on the pillow, while the other is laying on his stomach and tracing random thoughtless patterns with my fingers.

Harry glances sideways at me, sounding surprised with the way his voice kicks up, "You do?"

"Mhm" I hum, watching to look back down to the baby pink guitar, his fingers picking at the strings before he pauses them, "I don't think I've heard it before though, what is it?"