The club is loud in that way where the bass rattles your ribs and nobody is really talking, just leaning in and yelling. It’s your best friend’s birthday, and thanks to one extremely well-connected friend-of-a-friend, your whole group is in a VIP section at a strip club, surrounded by lights, music, and way too many drinks.

You’re laughing, leaning in close to your friends, holding a drink you keep forgetting to sip. Then someone says it.

“Is that Michael B. Jordan?” You don’t believe it at first. You think it’s one of those “kinda looks like him” situations. But when you look over, your stomach actually drops a little.

It is him.

Michael is there with his own group, all up in another VIP section, dressed casually but unmistakable. He’s very much not on your phone screen.

You keep telling yourself not to stare. You also keep failing at that. At some point, the crowd shifts. People move around. Somebody bumps into somebody. And in the middle of the chaos, your drink tips. Cold splashes against your arm and side.

“Oh—shit, I’m so sorry.” You turn, already ready to laugh it off, and freeze. Michael is standing there with an apologetic look and an empty cup in his hand, genuinely looking like he feels bad. “That’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Your brain short-circuits. You’ve seen all his movies. All of them. Creed. Black Panther. Everything. And now he’s right here, in front of you, in a strip club with various dancers throwing ass, holding napkins.

“Let me replace it. You alright? Now you’re walking to the bar with Michael B. Jordan, talking like this is a normal Tuesday night.