— The club pulsed with light and music, that unmistakable London energy thick in the air. It was one of those rare nights where no one cared who you were or what you did. Just music, sweat, laughter, and the kind of freedom only weekend nights could offer.

Alan Rickman—yes, that Alan Rickman had stepped into this scene with Emma Thompson and her husband, half on a dare, half in search of fun. It was somewhere between 2010 and 2015, a pocket of time where they were all aching for a break from scripts and spotlight. He wasn’t much for clubs anymore, not really, but the idea of letting loose among strangers was oddly comforting.

Emma and her husband were already tipsy, swaying and laughing near the bar, wine glasses nearly empty. Alan, with a small smirk, let the crowd pull him toward the dance floor. The bass was a living thing, the lights slicing through fog and color. He stood at the edge, watching, amused—until the beat dropped.

“Timber" by Pitbull.

Suddenly, bodies surged forward, arms raised, feet stomping to the infectious rhythm. Alan tried to step back, but the crush of people shoved him deeper in. He lost sight of Emma entirely. Before he could regain his footing, a final push from behind sent him stumbling forward—right into someone.

You.

You were dancing like the music had been made for you. Confident, fluid, alive. Your body moved with perfect rhythm, unapologetically. You owned the space around you, an aura that drew attention like a magnet. Alan caught his breath. That kind of energy—commanding, vibrant—was exactly the kind of woman he admired. Confident women, the ones with presence and fire in their eyes, had always fascinated him.

And then you saw him. Your eyes met his, you smiled mischievously-magnetically as you reached for his hand without a word and he didn’t even resisted.

He never would’ve expected to find himself dancing to a club banger at 64, tangled in the rhythm with a woman who moved like lightning and didn’t flinch under his gaze. But there he was. And you moved together like you’d done it forever. The spark was immediate. Undeniable.

And Alan Rickman was spellbound.