Ethan had never seen anything like this.
Not on TV, not in documentaries, not even in his first life as a failed actor wandering the outskirts of the entertainment world. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer, disorienting intensity of Britney Spears' fame when he stepped out of the MTV building with her after a rehearsal for a TRL appearance.
It was only their third week talking, and already things were moving faster than he expected — not romantically, but emotionally. She'd let him in, bit by bit, with bursts of openness that were so genuine they caught him off guard every time. And now, being by her side, even platonically, meant stepping into a hurricane.
The moment the sliding glass doors opened, the sound hit him like an explosion — screaming, crying, cameras flashing so violently the air looked fractured.
"BRITNEY! BRITNEY, OVER HERE!"
"ARE YOU DATING HIM?"
"LOOK THIS WAY!"
"BRITNEY, SMILE FOR US!"
It was chaos.
Security guards formed a human wall as fans pushed forward, some waving posters, some shaking with excitement, some holding signs with her name in glitter. Reporters shouted questions from behind metal barricades. Flashes burst like fireworks.
Ethan instinctively stepped back, overwhelmed.
Britney didn't.
She didn't flinch. She didn't tense. She didn't even blink against the assault of light. She simply curled her fingers around the sleeves of her denim jacket, lifted her chin slightly, and smiled that famous, sweet smile — the one everyone in the world recognised, the one that had become the face of pop culture itself.
But from where he stood, inches behind her, he could see the tiny detail that cameras couldn't:
Her smile was just a little too practised.
She turned briefly, giving him a sideways glance. "You okay?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the warm, Southern lilt she never lost, no matter how hard the industry polished her image.
He swallowed. "I should be asking you that."
She laughed lightly, the sound bright but fragile. "This? Oh, this is nothing. Just Tuesday."
The guard motioned for them to move. As they walked, surrounded by flashing lights and the crush of noise, Ethan stole small glances at Britney. She handled each moment with a professional grace that felt impossibly effortless. She waved to fans, touched a few hands, posed for two-second photos, and even giggled at signs being held up.
But her eyes — those told a different story.
Busy. Tired. Alert.
Like she always needed to be "on."
He could see why the world adored her. She radiated warmth, kindness, and a softness that reminded people of innocence. But being this adored came with a price — and it was a price he could see her paying more clearly now.
Once they made it into the car, the doors slammed shut, instantly muting the chaos. The sudden silence was jarring. Ethan exhaled, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.
Britney leaned back against the leather seat and blew out a breath. For a moment, she looked like a girl catching her breath after running a marathon.
"God," she murmured, rubbing her temples. "My head is killin' me."
Ethan turned to face her fully. "Do you deal with that every day?"
She opened one eye and gave him a lopsided smile. "Pretty much. But ya get used to it. Or… you kinda pretend you get used to it."
He didn't respond right away. He just watched her, really watched her — the way she shut her eyes for a second too long before opening them again, the way her shoulders sagged slightly when she thought no one was looking.
Britney fiddled with the strings of her hoodie. "Sorry you had to see that. It gets… kinda wild."
"I'm more worried about you than me."
The words came out more concerned than he intended. Britney blinked at him, surprised. "That's sweet," she said, softening. "People don't usually ask how I'm doing. They just… wanna piece of me."
Ethan bit the inside of his cheek. The phrase hit hard, knowing what her future held.
"I mean it," he replied gently. "That was insane back there. How do you stay so calm?"
Britney shrugged lightly. "I trained for this. Kinda like bein' a gymnast, you know? Always gotta keep your balance." She gave him a playful bump with her shoulder. "Plus, you handle it pretty well. Didn't faint or nothin'."
He chuckled. "Barely."
She grinned, clearly appreciating the honesty. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone — a pink Nokia she had decorated with tiny heart stickers and a charm dangling from the corner. She tapped quickly, then showed him the screen.
"You know what helps?" she asked. "Listenin' to somethin' real."
He blinked. "Real?"
She nodded. "Not all the noise. Not the pop stuff. Somethin' that's just… good." She hit play.
A soft, acoustic guitar filled the car. Indie, raw, almost melancholy.
"This is what you listen to?" he asked, surprised.
She nodded. "When I can. It makes me feel… normal. Like I'm still me."
Ethan studied her profile as she closed her eyes again, the music washing over her. And he realised something important — something the world didn't seem to understand:
Britney wasn't an icon.
She wasn't a superstar.
She wasn't the untouchable pop machine everyone made her out to be.
She was a young woman carrying a weight no one her age should ever be expected to carry.
A girl who wanted to sing and dance, and make people happy.
A girl who wanted peace.
A girl who wanted to feel safe.
And right now, even though they'd known each other for only a short time, she trusted him enough to show him the part of herself she kept hidden.
"Hey," she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "Can I ask ya somethin'?"
"Of course."
"Why're you so… calm around me? Most guys my age, they freak out or try way too hard or act all weird." She scrunched her nose. "But you don't."
Ethan paused, choosing his words carefully. "You're a person, Britney. A real one. Not… whatever that crowd out there sees." He gestured vaguely to the window. "I just treat you the way you deserve to be treated."
She looked at him for a long moment, eyes softening even more. "That's really nice," she whispered.
Then she blinked and straightened. "Okay! Enough serious stuff." She leaned forward, tapping the driver's shoulder. "Can we stop for milkshakes? I'm dyin' for somethin' cold."
Ethan laughed. "Milkshakes?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! You can't be hangin' with Britney Spears and not get a milkshake. It's like a rule."
The driver chuckled and began turning toward a nearby diner.
As they drove, Britney talked — really talked. Not the rehearsed answers she gave interviewers, not the polite fan-pleasing chatter. She talked about her family, her little sister, her dream of writing her own songs, her fear of disappointing people, and her frustration with being treated like a product instead of a person.
He listened.
He didn't offer advice.
He didn't preach.
He just listened.
And each time she revealed something private, something vulnerable, Ethan realised the truth:
This wasn't just the beginning of a crush.
It wasn't just awe for a superstar.
He genuinely cared for her.
Not the Britney the world saw —
But Britney Jean Spears, the girl from Kentwood who still laughed hard at dumb jokes and ordered milkshakes like they were gold.
By the time they reached the diner, she was smiling again, tapping her nails on the table as she picked up a menu covered in marker doodles left by decades of teenagers.
"So," she teased, leaning forward, "you hangin' around for a while? Or you gonna run away from all this craziness?"
Ethan smiled back, soft and sincere.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Her eyes sparkled — relief, gratitude, and something else he couldn't quite name.
And as the milkshakes arrived, two tall glasses dripping with condensation, Ethan realised something that tightened his chest:
This wasn't just the start of a relationship.
This was the moment he entered the part of Britney's life the world never saw —
the storms, the pressure, the loneliness.
And he knew he couldn't protect her from all of it.
But he would try.
God, he would try.
Because she deserved someone in her corner.
Someone who saw her.
Someone real.
And for now —
That someone was him.