The Rapper's Favorite || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 24: Fever Dream

Aria's POV

The studio hums softly, the faint vibrations of the soundboard blending with the quiet shuffle of papers and the scratch of Marshall's pen. The air feels heavy, charged with a focus that comes only after hours of working on the same track, dissecting it piece by piece until we're sure we've wrung every drop of potential from it. I'm perched on the edge of the soundboard, my legs crossed, my notebook balanced on my lap. The soft light of the desk lamp casts a warm glow over us, illuminating the streaks of ink smudged across my fingers and the faint sheen of sweat on Marshall's forehead.

He's seated a few feet away, his backward cap sitting low on his head, the edge of his short haircut peeking out from underneath. His white t-shirt clings to his chest, taut from the effort of the day, and he's leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies the lines scrawled in his notebook. Every now and then, he glances up at me, his blue eyes sharp, assessing, the intensity of his gaze enough to keep me rooted in place.

"It's good," he says finally, his voice low but clear, "but it's not there yet. Feels like it's holding back."

"You're rushing the last verse," I say, flipping a page in my notebook and glancing up at him.

"I'm not rushing shit," he fires back, his tone clipped but not unkind. He looks up, his blue eyes meeting mine. "The rhythm's there. You're just overthinking it."

"Or," I reply, arching an eyebrow, "you're underthinking it."

His smirk is small, almost imperceptible, but it's there, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Say that again after I nail this take."

I roll my eyes, leaning back on my hands. "Fine. Blow me away."

Marshall drops the pen onto the desk and stands, stretching slightly before stepping into the booth. He adjusts the mic, his movements precise, deliberate, and I watch as he rolls his shoulders, shaking off the tension. When the track starts, the room fills with his voice—sharp, relentless, cutting through the beat like a blade. He doesn't just perform; he commands, his words carving out the rhythm, each line hitting with precision. It's magnetic, impossible not to be pulled in.

When he finishes, he steps out of the booth, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "Well?"

I take a moment, letting the silence hang between us. Finally, I close my notebook and shrug. "Not bad."

He snorts, dropping into the chair across from me. "Not bad? That's all you've got?"

I bite back a grin. "Could use some work."

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and for a moment, the air shifts. The banter falls away, leaving something heavier in its place. His gaze lingers on mine, sharp and unrelenting, and I feel the weight of it like a physical touch.

The studio feels smaller suddenly, the hum of the equipment fading into the background as his movements slow. Marshall stands, his eyes never leaving mine as he crosses the space between us. I'm perched on the soundboard, and the closer he gets, the heavier the air becomes, charged with something electric. He stops right in front of me, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the console on either side of me.

"You've got an answer for everything, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice dipping low, vibrating through the tension-filled studio. His eyes remain locked on mine, dark and searching, but there's something unreadable behind them—something that feels like a challenge.

"I thought that's what you liked about me," I reply, my voice softer than I intend. The words don't feel like my own; they're distant, detached, as though the room itself is speaking through me.