Wait, what? Me and Eminem?! (An Eminem Fan-Fiction) *Completed*

Chapter Fifty Four

Hi everyone! I just want to say thank you to all of my lovely fans who voted, commented, and fanned, it really does mean the world to me seeing as how the Watty Awards are coming up in only a little bit. I know the last chapter was a cliff-hanger and everyone's waiting for those three  words, so let's not stall too long! Here's Chapter Fifty Four, picking up right exactly where we left off last, author's note as always at the end!

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I gasped, unable to stop myself. Suddenly Marshall's arms were constricting, and sickly warm, suffocating me. It must've all been in my head, because I hadn't felt his arms tighten around me after I'd gathered my thoughts.

"It's okay, Dri." In the darkness, I saw the faint shadow of his Adam's Apple bob slightly as he gulped, his anxiety, if he had any at all, hid well. "You don't have to explain."

A thousand thoughts danced around in my head. You don't have to explain? What the hell did that mean? My mind was swimming and numb, and I had no idea what to say. I settled on something neutral.

"Marshall, I..." I began, but he cut me off rather rudely.

When he spoke, his tone was low and intimate, and although I was stunned at his casual confrontation, his body had only seemed to loosen with the exhaustion of the day still burdening his thoughts and shoulders.

"Baby," he whispered. "Can we go to bed now?"

"Sure," I relented, even though more than half of me wanted to talk. He knew I loved him now. He knew. And he was okay with it, as far as I myself knew. He hadn't jerked backwards in disgust or drop-kicked me off the balcony, but still my heart was quivering dangerously in my chest. I'd said it and he hadn't. This was so disappointing, I couldn't even fathom it. Before I knew what he was doing, he'd nuzzled his cheek into the crook of my neck, his short hair tickling my jaw, and kissed me tenderly not once, not twice, but three times. His arms curled around me tighter, then he sunk in backwards a tad more than he had been, and with a drawn out sigh, all the muscles in his body contracted and relaxed. Looking over my shoulder, I saw his eyes were shut. My bottom lip started to tremble.

In that moment in time, I wanted music. I wanted music more than I had wanted it in a long time. Music didn't need to have words to be understood. And the message of music was always undeniably clear. Words in everyday life could be taken various ways, whereas with classical music, more often than not there was only one meaning.

I waited until he was fast asleep, his nose curling and scrunching daintily in his slumber as he snored, before I began shifting around in his arms. He was clasped around me firmly, a positive sign. It had been just recently he'd started to become more open in bed and with verbalizing his emotions. So why couldn't I do the same? Or better yet, why was I so afraid?

I was scared of not being loved. I think it's a fear that all abandoned children have, because one night a few years back, Dev had confided to me that he was afraid of never being able to be loved in his life and never settling down for good. I hadn't said it, but I knew one of my fears was the same. My pride wouldn't have let me say it, to be honest. Now maybe it scared Marshall that I loved him. He hadn't been with a woman in so long, maybe he'd forgotten the tell-tale signs of adoration in my eyes or maybe he'd chosen to ignore them. He was too hard on himself, that much I knew. It proved to be a successful trait in his career, but in his personal life, from what I'd seen, it only saddened him.

As usual when I was emotionally unwell, I was unable to sleep easy, and my recollections were so scatter-brained, after about an hour of screaming thoughts, I rolled flat onto my back and stared at the white ceiling, reminding myself to breathe and keep my head as clear and blank as the ceiling. But nothing worked. After another two hours of being awake and fiddling with my phone for distraction, I set it aside, eyes weary, and curled up into a fetal position, examining Marshall.