“Compromises,” he says, completely unbothered. “I added one of your favorites to every one of mine. That’s fair, right?”
I can’t believe this man. “It’s more than fair. I love it. I can see plenty of ABBA, too.”
“There’s always time to listen to the greatest band in Swedish history.”
“Are you sure they aren’t the greatest in the world?” I tease him about his not-so-secret love for the group.
“I can’t pick between them and other incredible bands including Fleetwood Mac, The Cranberries, The Cure, and Arctic Monkeys. Don’t make me choose.”
I laugh and scroll through the rest of the playlist.
We’re about halfway through our five-hour drive when I need a restroom break. I’m not even halfway through this pregnancy, and my bladder has already shrunk to half of its size. At least it feels that way.
“I really need to pee,” I groan.
“The next exit has a gas station,” Rasmus says, his voice calm. He’s been driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. “Think you can hold it in for five more minutes?”
“Barely,” I admit, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “If I sneeze, all bets are off.”
His mouth twitches, holding back a smile. “No sneezing, then. Got it.”
The highway stretches out in front of us, the winter landscape blurring past the window. The more we travel up north, the more snow we see. The ride itself has been quiet and uneventful until Rasmus pulls into the rest stop, and my bladder decides to kick into overdrive.
The second he parks, I fumble with the seatbelt, already halfway out the door before he has even turned off the engine.
“Should I be timing you?” he calls after me, his amusement unmistakable. I don’t even dignify that with a response.
When I return to the car five minutes later, Rasmus is leaning against the driver’s side door, a bottle of water in one hand and a gas station hot dog in the other.
I stop, holding a hand over my nose. “Tell me you’re not bringing that smelly thing to the car.”
He shrugs and takes a big bite. Huffing, I cross my arms. “C’mon, you can’t tease the woman who’s carrying your kid with something that nasty. That’s unfair and mean.”
“Who said we need to play fair?” he says with a wink and tosses the empty hot dog wrapper into the trash.
We get back in the car, and I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make any part of me hurt.
“Everything okay?” he asks as he starts driving.
“Yeah, I’m learning to accept the changes in my body. It’s wild how fast everything started hurting and feeling uncomfortable.”
He winces. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault that evolution made women carry the babies.” That makes him chuckle. “Now that we’re stucktogether for another two and half hours, we might as well make the most of it.”
“That sounds like a weirdly worded threat.”
“Not a threat. I see it more as an opportunity for forced bonding,” I say with a laugh.
“Alright. What do you want to know?”
I drum my fingers against the center console, trying to think of what I want to know. There’s so much I don’t know about him, even if we’ve talked quite a bit lately. But I definitely don’t know enough about his childhood.
“What was your favorite color as a kid?” I finally ask.
He frowns, not expecting me to ask something so basic. “Um, blue, I think?”
“Are you asking or telling me?”
