The Rapper's Favorite || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 26: Recovery

Aria POV

The studio feels like it's holding its breath.

The last note fades, leaving behind a silence that hums with its own energy. It isn't still—it's charged, vibrating with everything we've poured into this moment. On the monitor, the tracklist glows faintly, steady and undeniable: It's done. The album is done.

Marshall leans forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He stares at the screen like it might disappear if he blinks, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. His jaw tightens, the muscle flexing, but he doesn't say anything at first. He just exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, and then he laughs—low, rough, almost disbelieving.

"That's it," he mutters, shaking his head. "That's the fucking one."

The sound of his voice jolts something in me, sending a rush of adrenaline straight to my chest. My grin spreads before I can stop it, and the energy buzzing in the air between us feels sharp, electric. "It's not just the one," I say, stepping closer, my voice pitching higher with excitement. "It's the album, Marshall. This is the one they've been waiting for."

He leans back slowly, running a hand over his jaw. His grin twists into something sharp and dangerous, but there's something more behind it—something raw. "This is it," he says again, quieter this time, like he's testing the words. His gaze flickers to the screen, where the tracklist glows in steady confirmation. Then, his voice drops, deliberate and sure. "This is Recovery. That's what it's called. That's what it is. The one I had to make. The one that proves I still got it."

The name hits me like a strike, harder than I expect. I let it sink in, rolling it over in my mind. Recovery. The word itself feels monumental, heavy with meaning. It's not just a title—it's a declaration. It's everything this album is. Everything Marshall is. Raw, real, and unapologetic.

"It's your recovery," I say, my voice softening but still charged with the energy snapping between us. "This is what your legacy is about—your raw, real music. It's never just been noise."

His grin fades, and his eyes lock on mine, sharp and unrelenting. The weight of his gaze feels like it could pin me in place. "And you," he says, his voice dropping to something deeper, "are the reason it's real. None of this would've happened without you. You didn't just help, Aria. You fucking made this shit happen."

His words hit me like a punch, sharp and unrelenting. My breath stumbles, and I grip the edge of the console like it's the only thing keeping me grounded. "Marshall, it's your voice they're gonna hear. Your story," I manage, but the words feel too small. "I just... I helped shape it."

"Bullshit." His voice snaps through the room, low and rough, and he pushes himself to his feet. The chair scrapes back, loud enough to cut through the hum of the equipment. The suddenness of it makes me step back instinctively, my hip bumping into the console, but I don't move further.

"You didn't just shape it," he says, his voice harder now, sharp like broken glass. "You fought for this. For me. When I was ready to quit, when I thought I was done, you pushed. You fucking fought when I couldn't. So don't stand there and act like you're not part of this."

The air between us thickens, suffocating and heavy. Months of tension coil tighter, winding around us like a noose. Every late-night session, every argument, every look that lingered too long—it's all here now, alive in the space between us.

I glance back at the monitor, at the tracklist glowing steady in the low light. It's everything we've worked for, everything we've bled into. And yet it doesn't feel finished. Not when his words are still hanging in the air, vibrating with something unsaid.