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Jake hadn’t expected to like yoga, but Navy medical recommended it and he figured it couldn’t make things worse. He had thought it was a bit unserious at first, actually, with all the incense and crystals and mood lighting. But he wasn’t going to be scared off by any new age-y bullshit; after a few classes, it was clear enough that it was helping. Maybe, Jake thought sourly, he had a weakness for questionable aesthetic choices.
Jake was loose and limber after classes. And it was freeing to be around people who didn’t care who he was. People who didn’t care that he was a pilot, who didn’t know he had medals and wouldn’t have known what they meant anyway. He started with intro classes and then vinyasas and then on to hot yoga, 90 minute sessions and flawless form. Yoga, as a hobby, mostly didn’t leave him puking or regretful, so Jake kept going.
He kept going through the mandatory leave after the mission and then through the teaching position he took at TOPGUN, him and some of the others. Javy went back to his squadron, which Jake hated, but everyone who actually flew on the mission stayed. None of them had seen that level of combat before, so teaching was a well-deserved chance to decompress.
They were, to Jake’s surprise, all friends at TOPGUN now. Javy had been the sole exception, before; he’d always understood that Jake was prickly but not really mean. Mostly his former squad mates all seemed to think the same thing: Hangman doesn’t play well with others. Obviously Jake didn’t leave Maverick and Rooster hanging when it counted. Training had been one thing, but he wasn’t—Jake was good at his job. He was one of the best pilots in the Navy; he had a right to be confident. It was nice, was all, that everyone acted more relaxed around him since the mission.
So he had people who liked him. And he had people who liked him at the Hard Deck, too; people knew he was a hero, even if they couldn’t know why. Jake knew people were into that: the uniform, the muscles, the smile. Even anonymous, at yoga, he had two out of three, so people liked him there too. He didn’t pick up from the studio too often—he wanted to keep attending classes there, thank you—but Jake was still human.
So maybe he liked yoga. That didn’t mean Bradshaw needed to be such an asshole about it, though.
#
“So then he says,” Jake said to the receptionist, “that it’s a shame all the yoga doesn’t help with my ‘attitude problem’. Can you believe that?” Jake scoffed.
Lexi didn’t look up from TikTok. “I told him that maybe if he went to a couple classes he’d learn to loosen up a little.” Rooster had flushed and Phoenix had laughed at him, so it hadn’t been a total wash.
“Class starts in five,” Lexi said. Tough crowd.
Jake grabbed his mat and settled in next to another regular, Amanda—very blonde with excellent taste in workout sets and diamonds. She talked about her kids and felt up his biceps sometimes. He complained about the stupid shit his students were doing, or Rooster, or whatever. They were friends. Like he said, he liked yoga.
“You should bring him,” she suggested as they wiped down their mats after class. “Make it a group thing so he can’t say no. Wear those green shorts you have.”
“Maybe.” Jake scrubbed his sweaty face with a towel. Everything smelled like lavender and tea tree and his spine was melty. “I’ll think about it.”
Bradley had never been to a yoga class, but Nat and Bob were going, and it couldn’t be that hard. He wasn’t going to let Hangman show him up, either, even if Seresin had been a dick about the invitation.
#
“Bradshaw,” Hangman had said, handing drinks out to the booth. “Gentleman, lady.” The Hard Deck was just starting to fill up for the night, and Fanboy and Payback were cleaning house at pool.
“Bagman,” Nat said. “Did you have fun at pilates?”
“Yoga and pilates are not the same thing, as you well know,” Seresin sniffed. “Speaking of,” he said, “I was thinkin’ that we could all go to a class. First one is free, so no excuses.”
Nat looked at Bob, who shrugged. “Sure, we’re in,” she said.
Payback and Fanboy had wandered over to grab their beers. “Thanks, man. In for what?”
“Group yoga class,” Nat replied.
Fanboy made a face; Bradley secretly agreed. “The views,” Seresin drawled, lounging against the seat, “are phenomenal—ow! Rude, Phoenix.”
Payback snorted. “No way, man, I can’t even touch my toes.”
Hangman booed. “We can’t all be perfect, I suppose,” he said, and flashed his stupid movie-star smile.
Bradley laughed and exchanged an eyeroll with Nat. “Jesus. Humble as always, Hangman.” Years of practice kept him from flushing at Seresin’s dimples, but his eyes still caught on them, a little bit, on his white teeth and bright eyes. Bradley took a drink and looked away.
“One of my many virtues, I’m afraid,” Hangman said. “What about you? Gonna chicken out?“
Christ, he didn’t want to go to a yoga class with Hangman. That was—trouble waiting to happen. Worse than dogfight football; he’d still been so pissed at Seresin during that it was easy to ignore how he looked, sweaty and golden and beautiful. Easier, anyway. Now it was—well, he was going home with a new girl almost every night just to keep from doing something stupid. “I don’t know. Might be busy.”
“Rooster, I know you aren’t doing anything else,” Nat said.
“Come on, you’ll like it.” Hangman smirked. “We’ll take it nice and slow. But if you don’t think you can keep up…”
Bradley couldn’t let that stand. Not when Hangman was looking at him like that, so smug. And it was obvious what he was doing, a challenge, but it made Bradley go hot anyway, and he couldn’t help himself. “No, it’s fine. I’ll go,” he said.
“Great!” Hangman slapped his shoulder and gestured at the group with his beer. “I’ll text y’all the details.”
Yeah, Bradley thought. Great.
Jake worked it out with Lexi the next week. She refused to reserve them mats together until Jake gave her an extra twenty bucks; he respected that kind of initiative. He was chatting with Amanda when Phoenix, Bob, and Rooster pulled up—a strategic error, he knew instantly, because as soon as she saw them she sank her nails into his arm and hissed, “Is that him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake said, checking for blood.
“Oh, he’s handsome. And you said the mustache was bad!”
“It is bad—no, do not talk to them!”
Amanda giggled before giving Jake a hug. “Good call on the shorts, honey. Have fun!”
Jake straightened up and went over to the group, ignoring Phoenix’s raised eyebrow. “Alright, come on, put your stuff in the cubbies and follow me,” he said. He led them into the classroom, skin prickling. Rooster had been too far away to hear anything, Jake thought, though Amanda had smiled at him, but women smiled at Rooster all the time, so he probably didn’t think anything of it. Especially when Bradshaw was shirtless, which he was: tall and broad and built, with hair across his chest and trailing down below his waistband. Only assholes went to yoga shirtless. Bob was wearing a shirt and basketball shorts, like a normal person. At least Bradshaw wasn’t wearing jeans.
Jake didn’t glare when Rooster took the mat next to his, but it was a close thing. “What,” he said, “No Hawaiian shirt this time?”
“Like you’re one to talk.” Rooster gave him a once-over and grinned. “Are those women’s shorts?”
“Some of us have heard of Lululemon, Bradshaw,” Jake said, to Phoenix and Bob’s laughter.
Phoenix was warming up on the mat behind them, touching her toes and shaking out her arms. “So you’re really a regular?”
“You asking if I come here often?” Jake asked, and twisted back to wink at her.
She flipped him off, reflexive, and he laughed. “Yeah, I go to a few classes a week. Good for my nerves.”
“I didn’t think you had nerves, Hangman,” Bob said, teasing.
Jake shrugged. Everyone had nerves. At the front of the studio, a woman stood up in front of the big mirrors and clapped. “Welcome to Vinyasa I,” she said. She had that melodic, soothing sort of voice they must teach at yoga instructor school. “Let’s begin in a seated position at the top of your mat, and as always, remember to listen to your body.”
Jake tuned her out and focused on his breathing. In, hold, out, hold. Repeat and lengthen; in through the nose, back out through the mouth. Jake did that at night, sometimes, just counted the seconds while breathing. His phone had an app for it.
He didn’t look at Rooster. He could see Rooster out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look at Rooster, not when the instructor sent them into tabletop pose and especially not when he arched up in cat pose. The flow was going to be slow and easy, and he was going to have to listen to Bradshaw grunt and pant and sweat next to him, for a fucking hour, and this had been a really bad idea.
It wasn’t like he had no experience not looking. He spent a lot of time not looking at Bradshaw, actually. They might have been friendly now, and Jake did save Rooster’s sorry ass, but he was well aware he’d gone too far bringing up Rooster’s dad. And Rooster hadn’t liked him long before that, ever since he gave Jake his callsign. He didn’t want Bradshaw to get the picture and, god forbid, say something—“Look, Hangman, it’s just not like that,”—no.
Jake refocused on his breath, or tried to, anyway, and pushed back into downward dog. He could at least work on his form—relax his legs, press his heels into the ground, feel the stretch in his hamstrings. He could do this. Jake exhaled, deliberate, and closed his eyes.
Hangman was bent completely in half next to him.
Bradley forced his eyes back on his own hands and away from Hangman and his tiny shorts. Who wore shorts like that? They were, like, one inch long, and the way he was bent over meant Bradley could see all the way up his thighs, the muscles and tendons standing out, almost to his ass. Was Hangman even wearing underwear? Bradley couldn’t tell. Maybe not, he thought, but that would be crazy, in shorts that short—reckless, which would make sense—
“Bradshaw, you’re supposed to be touching your toes,” Hangman whispered.
“Fuck off,” Bradley said. The teacher coughed and Seresin snickered under his breath.
Bradley tried to keep his attention on the teacher after that, which he needed to do anyway; the poses were harder than they looked. He hit the gym regularly, of course, but balancing and staying in position worked the muscles in a different way. He could feel it in his ankles and the backs of his knees and inner thighs, not like his usual conditioning at all. The teacher had them plank, stretch, and then move through a bunch of ’warrior’ poses, and Bradley was really starting to sweat, hands slippery on the mat. Hangman was sweaty, but he also looked—graceful, lean and effortless. Reminding himself to watch the front of the room wasn’t working; he could see Hangman in the mirrors too. He looked, Bradley thought wildly, good, and he promptly shut his eyes and resigned himself to doing the rest of the class blind.
#
“Now bring one knee to the floor and bend over your front leg; half splits. If full splits are in your practice, you may take them now.” That voice had to be fake. Stupid voice, stupid tie dye, stupid beads. Bradley reached further down towards his foot, feeling uncharitable.
“Holy shit, Seresin,” Phoenix hissed. Bradley glanced over and his eyes just about bugged out of his head, because Hangman was doing the splits. He was stretched out over his front leg with his hips pressed flat to the mat, shirt bunched up around his waist and shorts pulled tight over his ass. Jake was glistening in the low light, and Bradley saw the dimples at the base of his spine. Jesus Christ.
Nat kicked at him and Bradley jerked his head back. “What?” He mouthed. She raised an eyebrow from her own perfectly decent half splits and looked pointedly between him and Hangman. He glared and turned back to the front, just in time to switch his legs around. Great.
Of course Hangman could do the splits. Too good to be true, like there was nothing he wasn’t good at. That had pissed Bradley off before the mission, Jake’s cocky fucking attitude; it still pissed him off. Not as much, now, after he found out that Hangman risked his career to launch without permission. You couldn’t not like someone who would do that for you. Not that Hangman did it for him, but…Hangman was all bark, was all. It was obvious now. Which was worse, Bradley had decided; Jake wasn’t just handsome and talented and clever, Jake cared. Bradley didn’t even mind that he was kind of a bitch. Nat and Mav had both noticed, but Bradley thought he was hiding it pretty well otherwise—ribbing Jake a normal, friendly amount, the same way Jake did with him. Well. He was trying, anyway.
Jake’s eyes were closed and his face relaxed, breathing deep. Easy. Like he did the splits all the time. Like his hips were loose and limber, like he could spread those strong thighs way out, any way Bradley wanted them, like he could pin him to the walls and the bed and the floor, get those tiny little shorts off—
Bradley shifted around, half hard just thinking about it. It was good that it was dark in the studio. Hopefully no one would notice.
By the end of class Jake was wound tighter than when he started, which was not what he went to yoga for. Rooster was the culprit: yoga next to him was just as bad as Jake worried it would be, but he had kept his cool, he thought. Class ending wasn’t helping Jake with that at all—now he had to talk to Bradshaw and Bob and Phoenix again, and it was harder to not look at the way sweat made Bradshaw’s curls dark and wild.
“Well, what’d y’all think?” Jake asked as they walked out of the classroom, and then froze, because Lexi was standing at the front desk and staring at him gleefully.
“So,” she said, “you must be Rooster.” Lexi leaned forward and ogled Bradshaw’s pecs. Then she glanced at Jake and grinned. “Jake said that you’re a pilot.” Phoenix burst out laughing. Jake felt his face flush and looked frantically at Rooster, who was—looking back, realization dawning, and oh, oh shit.
“Jake says that, does he?” Rooster shrugged his shirt on, smiling slow and pleased.
“I may have mentioned work—” He cut off, because that was the wrong thing to say, transparent and defensive. He hadn’t thought Lexi even listened to him. She winked at him, conspiratorial. Bob laughed at him then, too, and Jake’s whole body went hot, his skin too small.
“Whatever,” he snapped, and shoved his shoes on. He needed to get out of there and away from Rooster’s stupid self-satisfied smirk and his stupid curly hair. “Are y’all done?”
It wasn’t like he thought Rooster would be—disgusted at the idea, or something. He heard that Bradshaw swung both ways back in flight school. But Jake had also noticed, incidentally, that he always took girls home from the bar. That Rooster didn’t seem to have preferences beyond beautiful and woman. So it was just him that Rooster was laughing at. His stupid crush.
“Sure,” Phoenix said, and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Bradley, you coming?”
“Nah, you guys go. I’ll ride back with Seresin.” That was—not what he wanted. Rooster was still fucking grinning at him, wide, like getting one over on Jake was making his day.
“Alright, see you later!” Phoenix said, and Bob followed her out. Jake stared after them, betrayed. Maybe it was revenge for his jokes during training; he hadn’t apologized, but abandoning him like this seemed a bit extreme. Rooster came over to stand next to him, close enough that Jake could feel the heat coming off his skin. Christ.
Jake grabbed his bag. “Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
Lexi waved them out. “Thank you for coming to class!” She said sweetly. Jake considered canceling his membership, or maybe transferring to another continent.
They walked to the car, Jake feeling decidedly sorry for himself and regretting everything that had led up to that point. Rooster was whistling—presumably some shitty oldie—and he just kept on being smug and delighted at Jake from the passenger seat.
“Do you talk about me a lot?”
“No.” Jake kept his eyes on the road. Rooster was fucking with him.
“Uh huh,” Rooster said, amused. “It’s okay if you do, you know.” Jake clenched his hands on the wheel until his knuckles went white and pulled into Bradshaw’s driveway. He risked a glance over. Rooster was leaning back in the seat, easy, legs spread, still sweaty from class. He looked good in Jake’s car.
Rooster was looking right at him, dark and intense. “You want a beer?”
“Bradshaw—” He shouldn’t have been considering it. Whatever Rooster wanted from him wasn’t what Jake wanted, but—maybe, if Bradshaw just wanted to fuck him or something, that would be fine. Out of his system. And then Jake wouldn’t have to try not to watch him anymore; he wouldn’t be looking in the first place. “Sure,” Jake said.
Hangman looked like he was ready to bolt about three seconds after Bradley got the front door closed.
“Come on, sit down.” He pushed Jake towards the couch and grabbed two beers from the fridge, just to give Jake something to keep him there. “Here.”
Jake took the bottle automatically and sat down. Bradley considered his approach.
“You know what?” Not fast enough. Jake leaned forward and set his beer down. “Thanks for the drink. I think I’m gonna go home and take a shower.”
“I don’t think so,” Bradley said.
Jake barked out a laugh. “And who the hell put you in charge?” He stood up, then, and was going to walk away, and Bradley knew suddenly that if he let Jake get away like this, he wasn’t coming back. He’d get his walls back up and turn the whole thing into a joke. And Jake was moving, brushing past him; he was going to run.
“Hey, hey,” Bradley lunged, grabbed Jake’s arm, and spun him around. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Jake dragged fingers through his hair. His jaw was tight and he wouldn’t meet Bradley’s eyes, but then he—“Bradshaw, don’t—look, you caught me, okay? You don’t gotta tease me. Is that what you want to hear?” He squared his shoulders, and he was trying to play it cool, but Bradley knew now, he knew.
Bradley reached out and hauled him in by the arm. “I’m not teasing,” he said, and Jake was off balance enough that Bradley could pull him close and press against him, thighs to chest. Jake opened his mouth, pink and surprised, and Bradley grabbed him by the hair and kissed him, wet and urgent. For a second Jake froze, but Bradley licked across his lower lip and Jake gasped wildly and kissed back; Jake bit at him and clutched his shoulders and moved against him. Bradley grabbed his waist and yanked him closer, closer, sucked Jake’s lip into his mouth and slid their tongues together—and mouthed along Jake’s cheek and jaw. “You couldn’t have said something?”
“What?” Jake asked, but Bradley was kissing him again; he couldn’t stop. Jake’s mouth was slick and warm, and he made sweet little sounds when Bradley sucked on his tongue, and, Bradley realized abruptly, he was hard, they both were.
Bradley pushed Jake down on the couch, grabbed at his arms, at his waist, and ground down. “So fucking difficult,” Bradley muttered between kisses, “if you’d have just—”
Jake blinked up at him, shocked and a little pissed. “If I had? Why didn’t you?”
Bradley shoved at Jake’s shorts. “Jesus, these are tiny—” huh. Jake was wearing underwear, after all; he yanked those off, too. Bradley kissed down the red flush on Jake’s throat and licked the salt from his skin. “So pretty, can’t believe you. You know what you look like? Let me in, baby, c’mere.” Bradley pushed Jake’s thighs open and Jake groaned, sweet and easy.
And then Bradley had his own sweats and briefs down, too, and his hand around both of them, and Jake’s fingers digging into his biceps. Jake threw his head back. “Oh, fuck, Bradshaw,” he gritted out. Bradley bent down to kiss him, open mouthed and slick. He sat back up and stared at Jake spread out below him, at his sweet flush and his tank shoved up over his chest; he looked like a wet dream, Bradley thought, exactly like his dreams, maybe better, his abs flexing and his lips wet and red. This was—Bradley spat on his hand, jerked them off faster, and Jake whined and thrust up. “Bradley,” he gasped, and came all over Bradley’s dick and hand, and then it was over, sudden and all-consuming.
Bradley collapsed on him, keeping him there. Jake threw an arm up over his eyes, still panting; Bradley nosed up his neck and kissed his open mouth, again and again, and ran his hands over all the skin he could reach.
Jake laid there, trying not to think of anything at all, until the come cooling between them started getting tacky and uncomfortable. Bradshaw was hot on top of him and heavy, too; Jake couldn’t fill his lungs all the way even once his breathing evened out. He tried not to like it. Bradshaw’s mouth pressed soft and wet against his neck, his jaw, mustache scraping and tickling the thin skin. This was more than he ever thought he’d get. Jake wanted to stay there, to bask in the afterglow, but his satisfaction soured—soon it’d be back to business as usual. Rooster would remember that they only barely got along, that Jake was an egotistical sonofabitch, embarrassing crush or no, and send him packing. Jake would have to pretend it didn’t matter. He dug the heel of his hand into his eye. He had been stripped bare, Jake thought, literally and metaphorically.
He cleared his throat and shifted until Bradshaw peeled himself away and took off his shirt to clean them up. “What’s got you all shy?”
Jake moved his arm off his face and sat up. “Not shy. I’ll get out of your hair,” he said, and fished around for his briefs and shorts.
“You don’t have to—” Bradshaw paused for a moment and glared at him, and Jake felt his dick give a traitorous twitch because Rooster was hot when he was frustrated, something Jake had considered unfair for years. “Quit doing that. Don’t pretend.”
“Bradshaw, I don’t know why you think you’re an expert on what I want—”
“You talk about me,” Bradshaw said.
“Just because I complain—”
He was trying his best to deny it. Not good enough, obviously: Bradshaw had the picture now. Figured, Jake thought, though why Bradshaw wasn’t letting him lick his wounds in peace, he didn’t know. “Jake.” Bradshaw reached out to grab his hand and pull him back down to the couch. “What about this said not interested to you?”
Jake stared down. He had to do it, had to be honest. It hurt coming out of him. “I’m sorry,” he said lowly, “About what I said. During the mission.“
“Is that what this is about? Man, it’s forgiven. You saved my life, Jake, come on,” Bradshaw said.
“It’s just—I’m not interested in a hook up.” Bradshaw raised his eyebrows and looked between them skeptically. “Shut up. Not just a hook up.”
“I know, Jake. I’m not either.” Bradshaw intertwined their fingers and squeezed. “Give me a little credit here. I want you to stay.”
Oh. Bradshaw looked at him, open and sure. He could have this, Jake realized. Bradshaw was offering.
“Is that so,” Jake said, and started smiling, until his cheeks were aching with it.
Bradshaw rolled his eyes and kissed him softly, smiling too. “You are so goddamn stubborn,” he said, and kissed Jake again before tugging him up. “Come with me. We both need a shower.”
“Is that an invitation, darlin’?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Rooster said, and yeah. Maybe Jake was.