Ethan didn't expect his first brush with real fame to smell like hairspray, hot lights, and cold studio air-conditioning. But MTV Studios in Times Square felt exactly like that — a hive of bright colours, louder-than-life VJs, screaming teens behind glass, and the constant pulse of pop music leaking from every corridor.
His agent-for-now, Tommy, was practically vibrating beside him as they waited in the wings.
"You being here is already huge," Tommy said, tapping his clipboard. "TRL is the heartbeat of culture right now, man. If the cameras catch you even once, casting directors will Google you. Just… don't do anything dumb."
Ethan almost laughed. If only Tommy knew he had twenty extra years of not doing anything dumb as practice.
They walked past camera ops, stage assistants wearing headsets, and dancers stretching against walls. Ethan kept his head down. He wasn't supposed to be anyone yet — just an extra face in the background, a blink-and-you-miss-him.
But the air suddenly shifted.
A soft chorus of whispers rippled through the hallway. Assistants moved quickly, straightening, clearing space. Even the VJ walking ahead of them paused, smoothing her hair.
"She's coming," someone said.
And before Ethan could ask who, he heard a voice he recognised instantly — not because he'd heard it in this life, but because he remembered it from late-night interviews in his first life. A voice that always sounded sweeter than the world around it.
"Oh my gosh, y'all, that wind machine is ridiculous," the girl laughed, breathy and warm. "My hair is like… everywhere."
Britney Spears rounded the corner surrounded by handlers, her aura unmistakable.
She was tiny up close. Smaller than the camera suggested. Blonde hair pulled back into a soft ponytail. Glitter on her eyelids. A pink crop-top that screamed early-2000s. But what stood out most was her smile — bright, reflexive, practised… but fragile around the edges.
The crew greeted her like she was sunshine.
"Hi Britney!"
"You look amazing."
"Love the outfit!"
She responded to each compliment with a polite nod and a soft, "Thank you so much," her Louisiana accent slipping through like honey.
Ethan didn't mean to lock eyes with her.
He really didn't.
But she looked up at the exact moment he glanced over — and he felt the same surreal jolt he'd felt when waking up in this new-old world. Because Britney Spears wasn't just a pop icon anymore. She was a person. A real person standing a few feet away, blinking through exhaustion behind mascara and studio lights.
Her smile flickered when she saw him.
Not recognition — curiosity.
He lowered his gaze quickly, heart thumping.
He wasn't supposed to interact with her.
He wasn't supposed to be seen.
But someone from her team bumped her shoulder, and Britney stumbled a step to the side — directly into Ethan's path.
Her eyes widened.
Ethan reflexively caught her elbow, steadying her gently.
"Oh— sorry!" she laughed, breathy. "I'm like… totally clumsy today."
Her voice was softer up close. Sweeter. Unhurried in that Southern way, warm even in embarrassment.
"It's okay," Ethan said, releasing her carefully. "You're good."
Britney blinked at him again.
A tiny crease formed between her brows, like she was trying to place him or read him or maybe just surprised he hadn't freaked out.
"Thank you," she said quietly, in a tone most people never got to hear from her. The private tone. The "I'm just a girl" tone.
Then her manager swooped in.
"Britney, sweetheart, we gotta keep moving."
She nodded obediently and flashed that bright, public smile again.
"Y'all ready?" she asked the crew, voice slipping into performer mode.
As she walked away, Ethan felt something strange in his chest — both familiar and unknown. In his first life, he'd seen her career unravel. He remembered the 2002 heartbreak. The tabloids. The loneliness disguised as glitter.
Seeing her now, glowing but stretched thin, made him want to protect her.
Or at least understand her.
"Eyes forward, Hale," Tommy muttered. "Don't stare at Britney Spears. They'll throw us out."
Ethan tore his gaze away and followed Tommy toward the studio floor.
TRL's main stage buzzed with energy. Teen fans screamed behind glass outside. Music videos flashed on screens. VJs bounced around like hyperactive rabbits.
Ethan was positioned in the background row — just another face to fill the frame.
But every few seconds, his eyes drifted to Britney as she waited off to the side, fidgeting lightly with her mic pack. She bounced on her heels the way nervous performers did. Her lips moved silently — rehearsing? breathing? grounding herself?
She gave her makeup artist a polite nod, then clasped her hands behind her back and took a slow breath.
That's when Ethan realised it:
Britney Spears was nervous.
Not star-nervous.
Not diva-nervous.
Human-nervous.
She smoothed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then laughed softly at something one of her dancers said. But it didn't reach her eyes fully.
Ethan had seen that expression before.
In his first life.
On actors being devoured by the pressure of being perfect.
When the camera light turned red, Britney stepped onto the stage and instantly transformed.
The shy girl vanished.
The performer emerged.
She waved, blew kisses, bounced in rhythm as the VJ hyped the crowd.
"What's up, everybodyyy? Britney Spears is in the house!"
The studio erupted.
She smiled flawlessly.
But Ethan couldn't stop noticing the moment — a microsecond between camera cuts where her smile fell. Just a flicker of exhaustion before her face reset into pop-star sunshine.
It made something inside him ache.
She deserved better.
Better friends.
Better protection.
Better… something.
And maybe — in this life — she could have that.
During the ad break, Britney stepped offstage, exhaling loudly and fanning herself with a cue card.
"That was fun," she laughed. "Y'all are wild."
The assistant who'd rushed earlier offered her a water bottle. "You killed it, Brit."
She nodded modestly. "Aw, thank you."
Ethan tried not to stare, but he couldn't help noticing how she scanned the room — not proudly, but searchingly. As if looking for someone who wasn't paid to be near her.
Someone real.
For one heartbeat, her eyes landed on him again.
He smiled softly.
Not fanboy excitement.
Not awe.
Just… kindness.
Britney blinked — surprised — then smiled back. A small, real smile. Not the TV one. Not the performance one. Something gentle and unguarded.
Someone called her name, and she turned, but not before biting her lip lightly, as if holding back… something.
Interest, maybe.
Or relief.
Or curiosity.
Maybe all three.
After the show wrapped, crew members rushed around tearing down equipment. Britney lingered near the hallway, waiting for her manager to finish talking to a producer. For once, she looked still, like she was allowing herself a moment to breathe.
Ethan walked past her — or tried to. He didn't want to intrude.
But she spoke first.
"Hey… um…"
Her voice was soft.
Ethan froze.
She stepped closer, smiling shyly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I just… wanted to say thank you again. For catching me earlier," she said, her Southern drawl gentler than ever. "I woulda fallen right on my face."
Ethan chuckled. "You're welcome. I'm glad you're okay."
Britney tilted her head, studying him.
"You're… different," she said quietly. "Everyone here's always in, like, a hurry. You weren't."
He shrugged. "Just trying not to get in the way."
She laughed — a real laugh, small but bright. "Well… you did good."
Her manager waved her over.
Britney sighed softly.
"Gotta go," she murmured. "But… it was really nice meeting you."
"It was nice meeting you, too," he replied.
As she walked away, Britney glanced back one more time — a tiny, secret smile only he noticed.
And Ethan knew:
This was the beginning of something.
Something fragile.
Something real.
Something he was almost afraid to touch.