The streets outside Ford Field buzzed with the lingering energy of the Detroit Lions game, fans spilling out in waves, still high on adrenaline. The crisp night air was thick with the scent of stadium food, exhaust fumes, and the faint smell of beer from nearby tailgates still going strong. Your breath curled in the cold as you weaved through the crowd, the distant echo of chants and laughter trailing behind.

You weren’t in a rush, just enjoying the after-game chaos, when—bam.

A solid shoulder bumped into yours, not hard enough to send you flying, but enough to jolt you back a step.

“Shit, my bad,” a voice muttered, low and familiar.

You turned, already halfway brushing it off—until you saw him.

Marshall Mathers. Eminem.

Hood up, hands buried deep in the pockets of his Detroit Lions jacket, baseball cap pulled low, but there was no mistaking the sharp blue eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw. He wasn’t trying to be noticed, but even in the moving sea of people, he stood out.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then, he smirked slightly, tilting his head. “You good?”

A simple question, but the way he said it—like he wasn’t sure whether to move on or stick around—made the air feel heavier for just a second longer.