Shane and Ilya’s house in Ottawa has a ridiculously large bathtub, big enough to fit two 200-pound athletes and then some. Shane buys them matching bathrobes, huge fluffy things that fall to their ankles, and Ilya gets one of those fancy towel warmers, and on any given evening that they're not on the road, the odds are good you’ll find them in the bath, curled into one another, just talking and relaxing and enjoying the just-shy-of-too-hot water.
Some nights Ilya coaxes Shane into the tub and presses a glass of wine into his hand and holds him close, tucked up tight with his back to Ilya’s chest. Ilya hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder and traces lazy circles on his knee while they talk about everything and nothing.
Other nights Shane insists they switch so he can get his hands in Ilya’s hair, using the shampoo suds to give him a mohawk or devil horns, or just digging his fingers in deep and scratching at Ilya’s scalp until Ilya melts into him.
They stay in the bath until their fingers prune, until the water starts to cool, until the press of skin on skin makes them tumble into bed, warm wet bodies and open mouth kisses and they're so relaxed from the bath and turned on from hours spent tangled up together that it doesn’t take much at all before they tumble over the edge with hushed groans.
