Ethan didn't expect her to notice him again—at least not today. He'd figured she would float through the MTV hallway with the same whirlwind energy she brought everywhere: cameras, handlers, stylists, choreographers orbiting her like satellites. He was just another background face. A guest pass. A nobody.
But when the TRL segment ended, and the crowd's screams still echoed faintly from the studio floor, Britney emerged from backstage with a glowing, breathless smile…and she stopped.
Right in front of him.
She smelled faintly of vanilla body spray and expensive shampoo—something warm and familiar, something every early-2000s commercial had tried to bottle but never captured fully. Her blonde hair was a little messy from the headset she'd worn during rehearsal, strands escaping near her cheek. She tucked one behind her ear without thinking, a nervous habit he remembered from a dozen interviews.
"Hey!" she said brightly, voice cutting through the hallway noise like sunshine. "You're the guy from earlier, right?"
Her Southern accent was softer than on TV—not exaggerated, not put on for the cameras. Just natural. Warm. A little shy.
Ethan looked around to make sure she really meant him. "Uh… yeah. Ethan."
She nodded, as if confirming something to herself. "Right. Ethan." She said his name with a tiny melodic cadence, the way she always did with people she was trying to place in her mental map. "I saw you earlier near the audience line. You looked… I dunno." She bit her lip lightly. "You looked kinda nervous. You okay?"
Ethan blinked. Britney Spears—planetary superstar, tabloid magnet, MTV royalty—was asking him if he was okay.
"I'm good," he managed. "Just… first time backstage here."
"Oh!" She laughed—a sweet, bubbly sound that lifted and vanished quickly, like a champagne bubble. "Well, yeah, it's kinda crazy, huh? They run around like they're makin' a rocket ship or somethin'."
She did a little hand motion, imitating frantic running.
Ethan couldn't help smiling.
Britney's shoulders relaxed as if she took comfort in his reaction. "You'd be surprised how many people don't smile back," she said softly. "Everyone's just… intense."
She didn't say it bitterly, more like someone confessing a truth she hadn't meant to say aloud.
Ethan tilted his head. "You seem pretty calm."
She let out a tiny puff of breath—half-laugh, half-sigh. "Oh, honey, I am not calm." She lowered her voice, leaning in just slightly. "I'm a nervous wreck before every single show."
He believed her. The smile she flashed right after was quick and practised, the kind she used to reassure her team or the cameras. The real Britney was the one who'd just whispered that confession.
"Well," Ethan said softly, "you didn't look nervous out there."
"That's 'cause I fake it real good." She giggled again. "Mama always said, 'If you're scared, just smile, and people think you're brave.' I guess I still do that."
Ethan nodded gently. "It works."
She playfully nudged his arm. "So what're you doin' here? You don't look like a pop star. No offence!"
"None taken," he laughed. "I'm an actor. I'm… starting."
"Oh! That's awesome." Her face brightened, genuinely impressed. "Acting's hard. Like, super hard. I tried it once." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I was terrible."
"You weren't," Ethan said without thinking. "I saw Crossroads."
Britney grinned widely, scrunching her nose a little—a signature expression fans would one day gift millions of GIFs. "Awww, thank you! Most people just say… ya know… polite stuff."
"I mean it," Ethan replied. "You have presence."
She paused, eyebrows lifting. "Presence?" She repeated it slowly like it were a foreign word. "That's such a fancy thing to say."
"It's true."
Britney's smile turned soft, almost uncertain. She wasn't used to compliments like that—the real kind, the ones that weren't about her body or her outfit or her chart numbers. Suddenly shy, she tucked her hair behind her ear again.
"You're sweet," she murmured. "It's… nice to hear somethin' like that."
Her manager called from down the hall—sharp tone, impatient. Britney automatically straightened her posture. "Sorry, I gotta go back for a second. They're always makin' me redo stuff."
She started to turn, but then paused and looked back at him.
"You stickin' around for a minute?"
"Yeah. I've got time."
"Good!" Her whole face warmed again. "Don't leave, okay?"
He nodded.
Britney hurried down the hall to her team, voice soft and apologetic as she explained something about wardrobe tags and rehearsal notes. Ethan watched her—watched the way she bowed her head when scolded, how she kept smiling even when she clearly didn't want to.
This wasn't the confident MTV goddess plastered on magazine covers.
This was a 20-year-old girl being pulled in ten directions, polite to everyone, afraid to disappoint anyone.
When she finally returned, she exhaled like she'd been holding her breath the whole time.
"Sorry 'bout that," she said, shaking it off. "They don't mean nothin' by it. They're just… stressed."
She said it like someone defending a friend, not like someone defending her own peace.
Ethan hesitated, then quietly said, "Does that bother you?"
She froze. That wasn't a question she received often. And definitely not one anyone expected a real answer to.
So she gave one.
"A little," she whispered. "Sometimes a lot."
She shrugged lightly. "But it's my job, ya know? And I'm lucky. So I don't complain."
He heard the truth:
She never complained.
Even when she should.
A silence formed—not awkward, but fragile and real.
Then she perked up suddenly, as if catching herself revealing too much. "Anyway!" she chirped. "You said you're an actor? That's so cool. What kinda stuff do you wanna do?"
"Well…" Ethan smiled. "Everything."
She laughed brightly. "Everything, huh? Big dreams."
"Yeah."
"Good." Britney playfully jabbed a finger at him. "Keep 'em. Don't ever let anyone take that away. People'll try. Trust me."
Her words hit harder than she knew.
A producer yelled her name again. Britney sighed and muttered a soft "Lord have mercy," then faced Ethan with a softer smile.
"Lemme ask you somethin'."
"Sure."
"Do you wanna… I dunno… talk later? After all this craziness? I get real bored in my hotel room and it's nice to talk to someone who's not workin' me."
Ethan felt his chest warm. "Yeah. I'd like that."
She lit up. "Okay! Uhm—here." She dug in her tiny purse and pulled out a sparkly flip phone. "What's your number? I'll call you later."
He gave it, still stunned.
Britney typed it into her phone, paused, and gave him a small, grateful smile—one that wasn't for cameras or fans or handlers.
This one was just for him.
"I'm really glad you were standin' there today," she said softly.
"Me too."
Britney glanced back at her team, then turned to him one last time. "Talk soon, okay?"
She trotted back toward the studio, ponytail bouncing, voice soft as she answered her manager's rapid-fire instructions.
Ethan stood frozen in place for a long moment.
He had lived an entire life before this one—one where he never once met her. Never spoke to her. Never saw her like this.
Now he had seen the real Britney Spears:
sweet, fragile, funny, nervous, warm-hearted, desperate to please everyone but secretly exhausted by it.
A girl who needed someone to actually listen.
And somehow…
She had chosen him.