The bathroom smells of lavender and steam so heavy it could be touched.

A few candles wobble on the edge of the tub. She’s half-submerged in foam, eyes relaxed, head resting back — finally, a soft evening.

The door cracks open.

He slips in quietly, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair wet with snow, shoulders tired. He kicks off his socks wherever they land and sits down next to the bathtub with a sigh that sounds like home.

She reaches out without looking and runs her fingers through his soft, damp hair.

Silence settles. Not tense — familiar. Their kind.

Then, lazily:

“Sometimes I wish I’d been born a man.”

He opens one eye, eyebrow climbing upward as if pulled by an invisible string.

She smirks.

“No, I like being a woman. But if I were a man? Oh, people would absolutely lose it over me.”

He snorts.

“Classic Asian-mom overachiever.”

She traces a finger along his cheek.

“By thirty I’d own a restaurant. By forty I’d be some brilliant chef or annoyingly successful businessman. No ticking clocks, no cute hints about ‘finding a husband’ at birthdays.”

She shrugs lightly.

“Happiness doesn’t have a gender. Women don’t have to love motherhood or cozy homes — and they don’t have to fake it if they do. And men shouldn’t be ashamed of having feelings or wanting a quiet, non-corporate life.”

Another pause.

“People say feminists are too loud or gay men too flamboyant. Maybe folks should stop stuffing everyone into boxes. Then nobody would have to scream just to exist.”

He grins.

“You’d be the boss in a Prada suit. Brutal. Eating middle managers alive.”

“And you’d still fall for me.”

“I’d die instantly,” he says, completely serious.

She taps his nose with a bubble. He wrinkles it like a kid.

“You know,” he mumbles, “sometimes I think being a woman doesn’t sound so bad either.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

He counts on his fingers:

“The clothes. The pretty jars. The smells. The soft skin. Stronger orgasms. Allegedly.”

She bursts out laughing.

“Periods.”

He makes a face.

“Okay, yeah. That part sounds… intense.”

“Understatement of the century,” she says.

He shifts closer.

“I’d make a great housewife, though. I’d knit. Cook. Bake.”

“You already cook,” she says, brushing his cheek. “Though… a Christmas scarf would be nice.”

He sighs dramatically.

“But you wouldn’t fall for me if I were a woman.”

She leans in, eyes soft and warm.

“Wrong,” she whispers. “I didn’t fall for you-as-a-man immediately either. Some disasters just grow on you.”