The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in gold, shadows stretching across the walls. Outside, the city was quiet, the distant hum of traffic the only reminder that the world still moved. But inside this room, inside this bed, time felt like it stood still.

Marshall lay beside her, one arm draped over his forehead, his hoodie pushed up just enough to reveal the inked skin of his forearm. His breathing was even, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. He never was—not really.

She turned on her side, propping herself up on one elbow, watching him. His face, lined with years of pain and pressure, looked softer in the dim light. Less like Eminem. More like just… him. The version the world never saw. The version she was stupid enough to love.

She reached out, tracing her fingers lightly along his knuckles. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t reach for her either.

“You’re thinking too much,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep—or maybe just from everything he never said.

She swallowed, forcing a smile. “Habit.”

A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze, and for a second, she let herself pretend. Pretend that this was more than just another night. Pretend that when morning came, he wouldn’t slip out of her bed like he always did—like this never meant anything.

He reached out then, fingers grazing her jaw, thumb dragging over her bottom lip. It was a tease, a distraction. She knew it. And she let him do it anyway.

Because she’d rather have this—a few stolen hours, his body tangled with hers, his presence filling the emptiness—than nothing at all.

So she leaned in, pressing her lips to his, swallowing the truth she’d never say.

She loved him.

But he was only ever just passing through.