#eminemslimmarshall

"I have a surprise for you" Marshall said to me as he enter the living room. Inmediatly I turn off the tv and give all my attention to him. "Guess what" he said.

"What?"

"The song is complete!"

"Whoa baby!"

Here's the thing. He told me he was writting a song about us, but that's it. He didn't talk about ever again. Even if I asked him about it he had changed the topic. So, I was very nervous about it. Because this has happened before. It was with the Revival album. That one song called Remind Me. That one was for me. I still remember when he show me that song.

" did you...That's my fav rock&roll song!" I said when I heared the beat.

"Yeah, that's the song you kept singin' and singin' while you're cooking" he said wanted to laugh at me.

I loved that song. Perfect combination but it was crazy. I mean...he did that for me? He united rock&roll and rap that was so crazy.

"Damn, that's crazy babe" I said.

"See y/n, u make me do things I normally wouldn't do"

"Awww, I love it and I love you baby!"

So, this time I was really nervous because I've been singin' a lot and very different genres. And Marshall...Well, he is so crazy. I didn't know what to expect.

"Are we going to the studio?" I asked him ready to go change if needed.

"No, let's just get in the car". So, we got inside his car. "Are u okay?" suddenly he asked me.

"Yeah, I'm good! I need to hear your song!"

I got too excited and I get very excited when I'm nervous I don't know why, but It's like I got a lot of energy all of the sudden. Anyways, so he says:

"Okay, okay but you need to know that I just got the final mix and I haven't heard it. I mean I know the entire song but I didn't hear the final mix yet" he explained.

"Omg..."

"What?"

"Wait, let me just make myself comfortable" I said while adjustin' my seat a little bit.

At this point he doesn't even hide that he's laughing at me.

"Ready?"

"Yeah, ready"

"Wait, look at me" he ordered and I obey. "I love you"

"Okay, now play the song!"

"Yo, say it back!" he replied.

"I love you, babe!"

And so the music started and he is lip singin': "This could never work, " is what we said at first. But whatever this is, it's working. But we're in two different worlds and (yeah) I'm not your husband (nah), you ain't my girlfriend. All I know is that (what?) When I'm with you, I'm a different person, yeah. And I ain't never met a chick as perfect. Girl, you're a ten, so here I am (yeah)

I literely screamed and Marshall had to stop the music.

"No, keep it goin'!" I argue.

He laughed and let the music continue: ...Can't tell if I'm cheating on her with you or cheating on you with her. But really, nobody's at fault, can't help who you love. Hope they don't ever hear us talk

'Cause we both are getting sloppy. Probably subconsciously part of me's hoping we get caught 'cause I'm not happy here (nah)

With her. Rather have you (yeah) Rather have me too. 'Cause you're not happy there (you're not happy there) With him. Rather have me (I know, but) We just in too deep (I'm in way too deep)

Marshall started singin' it out loud and I was vibin' with it the whole time. It was a good damn song. Honestly, I loved it. It truly was about us, about the start of our relationship, but there were a few things that weren't true like me havin' a wedding ring. It should say: I got a wedding ring. So it's her instead of you.

"That's it. What do u think?" he said not being able to stop smilin'

"Please, play the song one more time"

And he started to laugh again.

"Marshall!"

"Are for real? Did you loved it?" he was surprised.

"Yes, I love it!"

"Y/n..." he laughs again.

"Marshall! You're being so freakin' annoying. Play the song one more time!"

"Yo, you are just sayin that. You didn't loved it!"

"What? I do love it! Marshall!"

"Okay, okay"

He played the song again.

"I'm gonna cry" I said.

"Yo, you're hillarious!"

"That song is good as hell!"

Chapter 1

The aroma of burnt toast hung in the air, a familiar battle flag in the war against morning. Y/N, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, scraped the blackened edges with a butter knife.

"Almost edible," she muttered, placing the salvaged slice on a plate beside a perfectly round fried egg.

"Mom, can I have the funny-shaped one?" Six-year-old John, a miniature dynamo with a shock of unruly brown hair, pointed at the toast.

Y/N smiled, the hard lines of her face softening.

"Always the artist, aren't you, John boy?" She handed him the misshapen piece. "Eat up, we're running late."

Her house, a modest brick ranch in a quiet Clinton Township neighborhood, was a testament to efficiency. Every surface was clean, every object in its place. The remnants of her late husband, a firefighter named Kyle, were subtly woven into the decor: a framed photograph on the mantle, a worn leather armchair in the corner, a collection of vintage fire department patches displayed on the wall.

Y/N’s movements were precise, almost mechanical. She checked John's backpack, ensuring his homework was tucked inside, then grabbed her own keys and purse. Her Glock 19, holstered at her hip, was a constant presence, a silent promise of protection. It was a tool, like the wrenches she used to fix her truck, or the chalk she used to demonstrate proper grip at the firing range. She was a firearms instructor, a profession that demanded discipline and control. She taught others how to handle the weight of responsibility, the power held in their hands. It was a job that fit her, a job that suited the strength she had been forced to cultivate.

As they walked to the car, John chattered about his upcoming dinosaur project, his words a comforting rhythm against the quiet morning. Y/N listened, her gaze scanning the street, a habit ingrained from years of training. She’d learned to see the world with a heightened sense of awareness, a skill that served her well as a single mother.

Sometimes, in the quiet solitude of her bedroom, she’d feel a pang of loneliness, a ghost of Kyle’s presence beside her. He’d told her, in the last days, that it was alright to find happiness again. “Don’t live in my shadow, Y/N” he’d whispered, his voice weak. “You deserve love.” But the idea felt foreign, like trying to fit into a suit that no longer belonged.

At John’s school, the air buzzed with the chaotic energy of children and parents.

Y/N knelt to give John a hug. "Be good, listen to Mrs. Changretta, and I'll see you this afternoon."

As John turned to join the other children, his eyes widened. He pointed at a man standing near the entrance, a tall figure dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans.

"Mom, look! I like his shoes."

The man, his face partially obscured by the hood, glanced down at his feet, then back at John. Y/N’s gaze followed her son’s, and she took in the man’s features, a flicker of recognition sparking in her mind. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. She decided to walk towards the entrance with John, using the guise of a final goodbye to get a closer look, to try and decipher the elusive sense of connection.

As they approached, Y/N subtly studied the man’s features, a sense of intrigue tightening in her chest. The hood obscured the contours of his face, casting him in a shadow that seemed to hold a secret. Even at close range, she couldn't pinpoint where she might have seen him before, yet the feeling persisted, a gentle tug on her memory. It was like trying to recall a melody, a faint tune that resonated with something deep within her. She also noticed a little girl, near the man, and felt a warm feeling.

"Those are cool shoes," John said to the man, his voice ringing with childlike enthusiasm.

The man smiled, a brief, almost shy expression. "Thanks, lil man"

Y/N stood, her hand instinctively moving to her hip, where the weight of her Glock provided a sense of grounding. She watched the man, her eyes narrowed, trying to decipher the reason for that spark of familiarity. The smile, though fleeting, left a lingering sense of intrigue. It was a glimpse, Y/N thought, a fleeting moment that hinted at something deeper, something unknown, yet strangely familiar. And as the man’s voice faded into the ambient noise of the schoolyard, Y/N was left with a sense of anticipation, a feeling that this encounter was more than just a chance meeting.

Chapter 2

The kid's voice, a high-pitched declaration of admiration, echoed in the sterile air of the schoolyard. Shoes, he thought, a simple, mundane object. But the way the kid had looked at him, with that unadulterated curiosity, it felt… unsettling. The woman, the mother, her eyes were different. Sharp, assessing. Like she was trying to dissect him, to see through the carefully constructed facade. He felt a prickle of unease, a familiar sensation that had become his constant companion. They know, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a phantom echo of paranoia. He glanced around, scanning the faces in the crowd, searching for… what? He wasn't sure. A threat? A familiar face? Or just someone that did not look like they were judging him. He wanted to be a good father. He wanted to give his daughter the world. But the world, it seemed, was always watching.

He knelt down to his daughter, Hailie, who was eager to join her friends.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, his voice softening. "Mom's picking you up today, okay? Daddy's got a long day at the film set."

"Okay, Daddy," Hailie said, her bright eyes filled with adoration. "Will you come see me later?"

"Of course, baby. I wouldn't miss it." He gave her a quick hug, his heart aching with a mix of love and guilt. "Be good for your mom, and I'll see you tonight."

He watched her run off, her laughter a fleeting melody in the schoolyard's din. Then, he rose, his gaze lingering on the spot where she had been. He gave a final gaze to the woman and her son. Familiar, he thought again, the word echoing in his mind. He couldn't place her, but something about her intensity, the way she held herself, felt like a warning. He was about to turn away completely when he heard a voice, sharp and clear, cutting through the schoolyard noise.

"Excuse me?"

He turned back. The woman, the mother, was standing a few feet away, her arms relaxed, but her eyes still holding that sharp intensity. Her son was gone, already mingling with the other children.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice low.

"I just wanted to apologize if my son interrupted your moment with your daughter," Y/N said, her tone softer than he expected. "He's very social, always making friends."

"It's no problem at all," He replied, a flicker of a smile touching his lips.

"He's a great kid" Y/N said, a hint of pride in her voice. She paused, a small, almost rueful smile playing on her lips. "But, crazy sometimes. Just yesterday, at the park, he told an old man, 'Hey, old man, I'm your son Pinocchio!'"

A genuine laugh escaped him. It was a sound he hadn't heard from himself in a long time. "That's… something," he managed, still chuckling.

"Tell me about it," Y/N said, shaking her head. "My name's Y/N, btw"

"Marshall," he replied, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Marshall," she said, shaking his hand. "Well," she continued, glancing at her watch. "I should be going. Have a good day."

"You too, Y/N," he said, watching her walk away. He stood there for a moment, the brief interaction lingering in the air. Y/N, he thought. It was a simple name, but it felt… significant. He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. Get a grip man, he thought. You've got a million things to worry about, and this is not one of them.

He turned and began to walk away from the school, each step measured, each movement deliberate. He needed to work. The film set, the studio, the constant pressure to create, to prove himself. It was a relentless cycle, a treadmill he couldn’t seem to step off. He felt the phantom applause of his recent success, a sound that was already fading, replaced by the gnawing fear that it was all a fluke, a fleeting moment of attention. He thought of the divorce, the constant battles, the feeling that his life was a car crash he couldn't escape. He just wanted a normal life. He just wanted to be a good dad. Just one hit wonder? he thought to himself. "No, I will not let that happen."

He turned and got his mind already shifting to the day ahead. The the film set, the constant pressure to perform. But the image of Y/N, her sharp eyes and firm handshake, and the image of her son, his social skills, stayed with him, a small, unexpected intrusion into his carefully constructed world. Now he was on his way to the film set. It was time to become someone else.

The set was buzzing, a hive of activity as they prepared for the scene with Brittany Murphy. Marshall stood off to the side, trying to shake off the lingering weariness from the long hours. He watched as Brittany, warm and approachable, went over her lines with Curtis. He knew this scene was pivotal, a moment where B-Rabbit starts to connect with Alex, her character. Marshall tried to focus, to immerse himself in the character, but his mind kept drifting back to the schoolyard, to the woman with the sharp eyes and the kid who liked his shoes. Y/N, he thought, the name a soft echo in his mind. He felt a sense of displacement, a feeling that he was living in two worlds, neither of which felt entirely real.

"Alright, Em, you ready?" Curtis called out, his voice cutting through the noise.

Marshall nodded, taking his place. The cameras rolled, and Brittany stepped into the scene, her energy infectious.

"Heard you're a dope rapper," she said, delivering the line with a playful smile.

"Who said I was a dope rapper?" M replied, his voice a touch guarded, just as Jimmy would be.

As they ran through the scene, a strange sense of detachment washed over Marshall. He was present, he was delivering his lines, but his mind kept drifting. He saw Y/N's face, a fleeting image, a whisper in the back of his mind. He couldn't quite place the feeling, but it was a mix of longing and a deep, underlying anxiety.

The scene continued, but Marshall's focus was fractured. He was Jimmy, he was Marshall, and he was someone else entirely, someone haunted by a connection he couldn't fully comprehend.

After the take, Curtis gave him a nod of approval. "Good stuff, Em. You nailed it."

But Marshall barely registered the praise. He was still lost in his own thoughts, the image of Y/N lingering like a ghost. He retreated to his trailer, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for a flicker of recognition. The questions echoing in his mind: Who am I? he wondered. The rapper? The actor? The father? He felt like a collection of masks, each one hiding a deeper, more vulnerable self. He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over the keypad. He wanted to call Hailie, to hear her voice, to remind himself that he was still a father, that he was still real. But he hesitated, afraid of interrupting her time with her mother. He put the phone down, feeling a wave of loneliness wash over him. He was surrounded by people, but he felt utterly alone. The applause, the attention, it was all a fleeting illusion. He longed for something real, something genuine... And there she was again. Why now? Why is Y/N so present in my thoughts, when I need to be focused?

Marshall didn't even know Y/N, not really. They'd barely spoken. He didn't understand why this was happening, why this person, this almost-stranger, was occupying so much space in his mind. It felt like a phantom limb, a connection that existed without explanation.

⚝ 𖤐 ✶ ✷ ⛥ ✴ ☆ ⍟ ✦ 𖥔 ✰ ★ ☆⚝ 𖤐 ✶ ✷ ⛥

Spoiler of the next chapters: Y/N turned, and her breath caught in her throat. Standing before her was the man from the school, the man with the familiar eyes.

"Yes, I am," she replied, her voice steady despite the sudden rush of recognition. "You're… Marshall, from the school."

"Yeah, that's me," Marshall said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a smile that seemed more genuine than the one he had given at the school. "Y/N, right?"

"Yes," she confirmed, a slight frown creasing her brow. "So, you're in this film?"

"Yeah, it's my first one," he said, his tone casual.