Before They Were Lovers (Nothing Special Valentine’s Origin Story)

Chapter Twelve

Day

Day woke to God’s loud snores and a streak of sunlight beaming across his pillow since he’d forgotten to close the shades.

His head was a throbbing reminder that he’d had a few too many bourbon shots himself. Thoughts of last night flooded to the surface, along with a host of imagery that made his dick harder than usual for a Sunday morning.

When he’d gotten into bed, God was already passed out, and as if he’d felt him in his dreams, God had damn near climbed on top of him before he fell back into a deep sleep. Day had finally shoved him over when he’d started to sweat from the insane body heat.

He glanced over and was rewarded with a full view of the roaring lion tattooed over eighty percent of God’s back. With each breath, his muscles moved, and so did the beast.

Day had to bite into his bottom lip as his cock jerked for attention. Fighting back the lingering haze, Day pushed himself out of bed and gently closed the bathroom door behind him so he could do the same thing he had six hours ago.

Once he was sated, all his body craved was food with frighteningly high levels of cholesterol and a huge cup of coffee.

Not long after he opened all the blinds in the living room, turned on the television, and threw a load of laundry in the wash, Day heard his bathroom door slam shut and the shower start.

His brain flickered back to God’s drunken declarations and the slurred whispers against his ear of how he wished they could be something more. But he pushed it aside. They’d both been wasted and wishing for the impossible.

He set his coffee machine to brew, then went in search of something to eat. He settled on scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, and buttered toast.

God preferred the simple things.

Day knew exactly how much milk, a pinch of salt, a light sprinkle of pepper, and how soft to cook God’s eggs. Day’s coffee was mostly a dessert—ten pumps of one of his many flavored syrups, foaming sweet cream, and brown sugar. He poured God’s—black, teaspoon of sugar, done.

He set the toast and coffee on the breakfast bar when he heard God’s bare feet on the hardwood floor. His partner turned the corner, and Day almost choked on the melon he was eating.

What the…seriously?

God was dripping wet, wearing a too-short towel clinging to his hips for dear life.

“Where are my clothes, Day?” he rumbled before he dropped down on the stool in front of the breakfast bar and took a big sip of his coffee.

“Laundry,” he muttered. “I just hope your hoodie doesn’t shrink anymore, or you’ll be wearing it as a goddamn halter top.”

“Fuck off,” God said, clutching the side of his head, looking exhausted. “What in the hell did I drink last night, Day?”

“Liquor that should’ve had an octane rating,” he mumbled.

“Last thing I remember was you forcing me out of the bar.” God squeezed his temples. “That was you, right?”

Day sighed. He’d known God wouldn’t remember a damn thing.

“Here, dumbass.” Day opened his junk drawer before slamming a bottle of Tylenol beside God’s mug.

“Man, did I sleep at all? Feels like I just pulled a forty-eight-hour shift.”

Day began to cut some more slices of fruit.

“You slept all night. It was me who was jerked awake every thirty minutes.” Day slid God some fruit. “Thanks for keeping your snoring to a dull roar.”

“I don’t snore,” God scoffed.

“Unless there was a herd of elephants sleeping outside my window…you fuckin’ snore.”

“What’s this…red oranges? You know I don’t like that weird shit you eat.”

“It’s grapefruit. Eat it. It has tons of vitamin C.”

Day smiled when God begrudgingly shoved a piece in his mouth.

Once he finished cooking their breakfast, he set God’s plate in front of him and then sat on the remaining stool to eat with him.

He’d eaten his eggs and bacon and was about to pour himself his third cup of coffee when he noticed God staring at him.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You cook really good.” God scowled.

Day chuckled. “Am I offending you with an edible breakfast?”

“Who taught you how to cook?”

Day squinted.

“Mostly me,” he answered. “Eating out costs a lot of money. We’re not exactly earning six-figure salaries.”

“So you taught yourself how to make perfectly fried bacon and sausages without the black crust all over them?” God stabbed at his eggs. “And look at these damn eggs. They’re all fluffy and yellow and shit.”

Day shook his head. “Are you insane? I’ve cooked for you hundreds of times. You’re just now noticing your food wasn’t burned?”

God waved his hand over Day’s plate. “And your exotic fruits.”

“You’re calling grapefruit exotic?” Day asked in a bored tone, finishing his last piece. “My groceries aren’t imported from Dubai, God.”

“Stop trying to be funny. I’m serious, Day. Everything tastes fuckin’ delicious!”

Day blinked, feeling confused as hell. “Um, thanks…for that…very passionate compliment.”

“What’s for dinner, huh?” God’s tone was so low he was almost growling. “Beef Wellington foie gras, or are you gonna design us a fancy charcuterie board of cured meats and olives?”

Day couldn’t help the sharp laugh that burst from his mouth. “Where’d you learn those dishes?”

“I googled ’em last night!” God barked.

“Why were you googling gourmet dinners?” Day laughed louder.

God didn’t answer as he continued to seethe like a poked grizzly.

Day covered his grin. He was starting to get it now.

After God learned Prescott was a renowned chef and Day’s best friend in college, he must’ve assumed they’d had some steamy, all-night sampling sessions.

God was jealous.

Oh, I’m loving this.

His partner may not have remembered everything he’d confessed to last night, but Day loved that it was all true. God wanted them to be together. But they couldn’t, so he didn’t want anyone else to be with Day either.

Hookups, one-and-dones, or being jerked off in a club bathroom, God would probably be okay with. But romantic dinners on a yacht, flowers with special meanings, and making love on twenty-thousand-dollar beds adorned with rose petals…? His partner was drawing the line there.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” God leaped up so fast he knocked his stool over. “You know I don’t like it when you mock me, Day.”

He’d seen God’s temper plenty enough times that it didn’t rattle him. He understood how his partner expressed his anger or…hurt. Instead, Day stared up into fierce green eyes as God towered over him, his hairy chest still damp from his shower.

“Did he teach you how to cook , Day?” God rumbled.

Day stood, glared back, removed all amusement from his face, and answered. “No, God. We never cooked . Not last night…not any night.”

God licked his lips, his ire seeming to settle at Day’s admission. He’d never lie to God, and God knew it.

“Keep it that way,” God ordered with bass and authority.

They were so close he could practically taste the strong black coffee on God’s lips.

“And you keep those women you hook up with to the back seat of your truck,” Day countered. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” God murmured after a long, tense moment. “I got it.”