You were on the streets by yourself because that's where you live. You and Eminem are both 16, both living in poverty.

Eminem trudged through the cracked streets, his hoodie pulled low, the bruises on his arms hidden beneath the sleeves. The sky was grey, matching the weight in his chest. He spotted you curled up by the convenience store, your arms wrapped around your knees to fight the biting Detroit cold.

"Hey, baby," he mumbled, crouching down. He pulled a crumpled paper bag from under his hoodie. "Got you somethin'."

You blinked up at him, your tired eyes widening. "Marshall, you didn’t have to—"

"I did," he cut you off, the usual edge in his voice softened. "You need to eat."

You opened the bag, the smell of stale bread and greasy fries hitting you. It wasn’t much, but it was more than enough. Your fingers trembled as you tore a piece of the sandwich, savoring it like a feast.

"Where’d you get it?" you asked, though you knew better.

Eminem shrugged. "Don’t worry about it."

But you knew. Sometimes he scraped together loose change, sometimes he shop lifted a thing or two when no one was looking. Either way, he always found a way to take care of you.

"Thank you," you whispered, reaching for his hand.

He squeezed it, his thumb tracing the rough patches on your skin. "Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you. Not while I’m around."

And even in the shadows of his own pain, he made sure you never went without. That was just who he was.