The afternoon sun beats down on the pavement as you wander through the park, searching for something to cool you down. The line at the ice cream stand isn’t too long, just a couple of people ahead of you. You glance at the menu, debating between classic vanilla or something adventurous.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice the man in front of you. He’s wearing a plain white tee, a simple chain resting against his collarbone. His braids are neatly tied back, and he stands with a relaxed posture, tapping his fingers lightly against his forearm while waiting for his turn. It’s not until he speaks—low, calm, effortlessly cool—that it clicks.

"One scoop of butter pecan…in a waffle cone."

Your brain short-circuits. There’s absolutely no fucking way. That voice, that face—you’re standing behind Kendrick Lamar at an ice cream stand.

And he just ordered butter pecan.