Hollywood — October 2002
Ethan wasn't used to being this nervous. It had been a long time—at least in his first life—since anything felt new enough to make his stomach twist. But the moment he stepped out of the taxi and saw Britney Spears standing outside the small café on Melrose, wearing a simple white top, low-rise jeans, and a messy ponytail, he felt that familiar jolt in his chest.
She turned just as he approached.
Her smile was automatic—stage-ready at first—before softening into something real when she recognised him.
"There you are!" she said, waving in that bright, bubbly way that felt so genuinely her. "I thought maybe you ran away or somethin'. My mom says I scare boys off."
He laughed—he couldn't help it. Her humour was unfiltered, slightly self-deprecating, and almost childlike in its warmth.
"No," he said, stepping closer. "Definitely didn't run away."
Her eyes sparkled. "Good. 'Cause I was about to call your agent and tell on you."
"I don't have an agent," he said.
She blinked.
Then laughed—a real one that crinkled her eyes and made her whole face light up.
"That is… actually kinda refreshing."
They went inside. Britney insisted on picking a corner booth "so people won't bother us," though she said it with the tone of someone who knew it probably wouldn't work. She ordered a caramel frappuccino with extra caramel—"like, extra extra"—and a little side salad she barely touched. Ethan ordered black coffee.
"You drinkin' coffee?" she asked, leaning her chin on her palm. "You look too young to be drinkin' coffee."
He smiled. "I've had a long… month."
"Oh my God, same," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "The VMAs fried my brain. You ever have a day where you talk to, like, a thousand people and then forget how to talk at all?"
"Yeah," Ethan said, too quickly. "More than I like."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You're different, you know that?"
He froze. "Different how?"
"I dunno," she said. "Most guys I meet… they're either tryin' to impress me or they're terrified. You're like… in the middle. Chill but not like—fake chill." She mimicked a Hollywood guy posture: leaned back, acting bored, eyes half-lidded. "You know? Like that."
He laughed. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean."
Britney smiled again, but this time it slipped into something gentler, more vulnerable. She tapped her straw wrapper on the table.
"I don't really get to go on normal dates anymore," she said quietly. "Like… I forgot what they even feel like."
"This is normal," Ethan said softly.
"No, it ain't," she said with a tiny smirk. "But thanks for pretendin'."
For a moment, she looked out the window, eyes distant.
And Ethan saw it—the thing he always sensed from interviews in his first life but never truly understood until now:
Britney Spears was lonely.
Not dramatic-lonely.
Not celebrity-lonely.
Just humanly, painfully lonely.
He changed the subject, sensing she needed the weight to lift.
"So… Leo said you invited me. That wasn't a prank?"
She giggled. "Leo's a little shit sometimes, but no—wasn't a prank." She stirred her drink with a straw. "I like your vibe. You're funny. And at the VMAs you didn't look at me like—"
She cut herself off.
"Like what?" he asked gently.
She hesitated, chewing the end of her straw.
"Like property."
Ethan's chest tightened.
This was what the world never understood about her. Even in 2001, before the breakdown, before the tabloids turned cruel, Britney felt the pressure of being looked at instead of seen.
"Well," he said, "for what it's worth, I see you."
Her eyes snapped back to his. Bright. Sharper. Searching.
"And what exactly do you see?" she asked, almost defensively.
He didn't let himself overthink. "A girl who works too hard, trusts too easily, and still manages to smile in a way that feels real. And… someone who deserves a break. A real one."
Britney blinked hard. Looked down. Then let out a breathy, shaky laugh.
"Damn," she whispered. "No one's ever said somethin' like that to me."
The café door opened suddenly, and two teen girls gasped loudly the second they recognized her. Britney's shoulders tightened reflexively, her smile snapping into performance mode. The girls approached, gushing, nearly trembling.
"Oh my God—Britney—can we get a picture? Please please please—"
"Of course!" she chirped, switching to celebrity brightness instantly. "What's your name, sweetie?"
Ethan watched her flip the switch—the professional warmth, the sweet charm, the practiced smile. It was flawless. It was heartbreaking.
After the girls left, Britney sagged into the booth like a balloon losing air.
"Sorry," she muttered. "I love my fans. I do. It's just… sometimes I feel like I gotta be five different people at once."
"I get it," Ethan said. And he did. In his first life, rejection had crushed him. But Britney? Fame crushed her.
"You really don't," she said softly. "But… thanks for sayin' it."
The food arrived, and Britney perked up almost instantly.
"Oooh! Pancakes!" she said, eyes bright. "Okay, we're sharin' this. Don't argue."
She tore off a piece and handed it to him—literally held it inches from his mouth with a playful, exaggerated motherly expression.
"You better take this before I shove it in your face."
He laughed and leaned forward to take it.
She lit up.
"You're fun," she said. "Most dudes I go out with act all stiff."
"Maybe they're intimidated?"
"Nah," she said. "They just think I want… I dunno. Someone who looks perfect? Someone who plays the part. But honestly…" She leaned back, swirling her straw again. "I just want someone who's, like, nice. And funny. And real."
Her voice dipped.
"Someone who doesn't want me for the brand."
Ethan swallowed.
In his old life, Britney was a face on tabloid covers. A headline. A cautionary tale.
Meeting her now—unfiltered—felt like meeting the person the world never protected.
He could feel himself falling. And not in a starstruck way.
No—this was human.
"What about you?" she asked, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "What do you want?"
Ethan hesitated. The truth was complicated. Heavy. Born from two lifetimes.
"I want a life I'm proud of," he said. "A life where I'm not just… surviving."
Britney studied him for a moment, then said softly: "You talk like someone older."
He froze.
She wasn't wrong.
"Well," he said, "I've lived more than I should've."
She smiled—not confused, just… curious. Like she sensed something deeper but knew better than to pry.
"You're kinda weird," she said finally. "But like—good weird. Cute weird."
Ethan laughed. "I'll take that."
They spent another hour talking about movies, about childhoods, about stupid crushes they had growing up. Britney told him stories about her hometown in Kentwood, about eating crawfish on the porch, about how her family "screamed at the football games like maniacs."
At one point, she said, "I miss home," and it wasn't nostalgia. It was ache.
When the date ended, they stepped outside. More fans had gathered. Cameras flashed. Britney tensed again, her body language shrinking.
Ethan instinctively stepped slightly in front of her—not blocking, but protecting.
She noticed.
And smiled.
A small, grateful smile that reached her eyes.
"You're sweet," she whispered. "Don't let Hollywood kill that."
They stood there, the noise of the crowd swelling around them.
"Can I see you again?" Britney asked, voice barely audible under the chaos.
Ethan didn't hesitate. "Yeah. Absolutely."
She bit her lip, a mix of giddiness and worry.
"Then let's do somethin' less crazy next time."
She hugged him—quick but warm—and slipped into her driver-escorted car. As the doors closed, she pressed her hand to the window in a soft, lingering gesture before being whisked away into the chaos of her fame.
Ethan stood on the sidewalk long after she was gone, breath unsteady, heart full.
In his first life, he never had this.
Never had her.
Never had the chance to see the real person behind the pop princess.
But here—now—he had stepped into the life he always wished he could live.
And as he walked down Melrose, the sun warming his face, he realized something undeniable:
He wasn't just reliving his past.
He was rewriting it.