The drive back from the MTV studio should've felt exciting. It was one of Britney's best performances of the year—clean vocals, sharp choreography, and an entire crowd roaring her name. Ethan had watched it from backstage, stunned by the sheer pressure she carried as if it were nothing. She made it look effortless. Magical.
But in the car, the energy shifted.
Britney sat curled near the window in oversized low-rise jeans and a pink cropped sweatshirt, her hair pulled into one of those messy half-updos she seemed to throw together in seconds. She was quiet, picking at the hem of her sleeve, drawing invisible shapes on the window. Her knee bounced with a restless rhythm she didn't seem aware of.
Ethan watched her from the passenger seat. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest like the air before a storm.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She blinked, as if pulled from far away. "Yeah. Mmhmm. I'm fine." The words were quick, automatic—too rehearsed, like something she'd said a thousand times.
He didn't push. Not yet.
They pulled up to a red light. A small crowd of paparazzi on the corner spotted the SUV. In seconds, cameras lifted. Bright flashes burst through the windows like tiny explosions. The security guard driving the car tensed, muttering, "Hold on."
Britney shrank into her seat, pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up, as though she could hide from the world.
The flashes grew louder, violent, like lightning cracking against the glass.
Ethan's hand instinctively moved toward her—not touching yet, just there.
She whispered, "God, can they just… stop?"
Her voice cracked, and Ethan felt something inside him crack, too.
"You don't have to look," he said softly.
She nodded fast, almost childlike, shrinking further.
The security guard pressed the horn and sped through the intersection. The paparazzi scattered like insects, shouting her name.
Once the car stabilised, Britney kept staring at her knees.
"Sorry," she said, pushing a shaky little laugh out. "I'm being weird."
"You're not," Ethan said. "Anyone would feel overwhelmed."
Her eyes flicked up, surprised by his calm tone. She wasn't used to that—someone being gentle instead of demanding or dismissing.
She sighed, wiping the corner of her eye quickly so he wouldn't notice. "People think I'm… I dunno. Like I'm used to it." She shrugged. "But it's just… loud."
The way she said it loud wasn't about the cameras. It was everything—the noise of fame, the noise of expectation, the noise inside her own mind.
He shifted toward her. "Can I ask something?"
She braced. "Yeah?"
"Have you… been sleeping at all lately?"
Her eyes widened a fraction, then darted away. "Why would you ask that?"
He didn't want to push, but he had to. "You seemed… off before the performance. Tired."
Her lips pursed. "I get tired sometimes. Just work stuff." She waved a hand dismissively, but her voice was too thin, too floaty.
"Britney," he said softly, "I mean this most kindly—there's tired, and then there's… exhausted."
She stayed silent.
A long exhale left her fragile and shaky. "I had rehearsals until three last night." She swallowed. "Then interviews this morning. Then we went straight to the studio." She tried to laugh again, but it came out like a breath breaking. "Honestly? My head kinda feels like… noise."
Ethan felt his stomach twist. He'd seen interviews. He'd seen articles. But he hadn't known it was like this.
Her feet swung lightly under the seat, the small nervous habit he'd noticed earlier. "I know I'm supposed to be grateful—I am grateful—but sometimes I just wanna…" She trailed off, looking out the window. "Disappear for a day. Or sleep for like a month."
He leaned closer. "Brit, you don't have to be perfect all the time."
She gave him a small, sad smile. "That's really sweet." Then, quieter: "But I kinda do."
The car turned into the underground garage of their hotel. As the doors closed behind them, blocking out the world, she finally let her shoulders drop. Physically relaxing for the first time since they'd left the studio.
They stepped out and walked toward the elevator. She slipped her arm through his, clinging—not romantically, but like she needed something solid to hold onto.
Inside the elevator, with the doors closed and fluorescent lights humming above them, she whispered, "I really like you, Ethan."
His heart jumped, warm and bright. "I really like you too."
She nodded, eyes shining with something other than romance. Fear, maybe. Pressure. Hope. A fragile mix.
"I like how you look at me," she said softly. "Like… I'm a person. Not a… thing."
"You're not a thing," he said without hesitation. "You're a human being with a big heart and a lot on her shoulders."
She bit her lip, her breath shaky again—for the fifth, maybe sixth time since they'd left the venue. The cracks in her armour were showing. In every interview clip he remembered from the future, she had the same nervous laugh, the same tendency to over-apologise, the same moment where her smile wobbled before she forced it back into place.
He was seeing it live now.
The elevator dinged. They stepped out into a quiet hallway.
Outside her door, she hesitated.
"Can I tell you something?" she whispered.
"Anything."
She clutched the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "Sometimes I feel like… like everyone's taking pieces of me. Tiny ones. And I keep giving them because that's my job. But I don't know what happens when there's nothing left."
Ethan froze.
That was it.
The first warning.
The first crack in her foundation.
He stepped closer, careful, gentle. "Britney, you don't deserve to feel that way."
She blinked hard, tears forming again. "I know. I know I should be stronger."
"No," he said firmly. "You're already strong. You need people who actually protect you."
For a moment, she looked like she might collapse into him. But then she straightened, forcing that bright pop-star smile back in place.
"I'm okay," she said too quickly. "I'm fine."
She wasn't.
He knew it.
And she knew he knew it.
She hugged him suddenly—tight, warm, desperate. Not flirty. Not sexual. Just a young woman clinging to safety for a moment.
"Thank you for today," she whispered against his shoulder. "I really needed someone to be normal with."
"You can always be normal with me," he murmured.
She pulled back, eyes glassy but smiling. "Goodnight, Ethan."
"Goodnight, Brit."
She slipped into her room and closed the door softly.
Ethan stood there, heart racing—not from joy, but from dread.
He remembered the headlines.
He remembered the interviews.
He remembered the breakdown.
And for the first time, standing alone in a quiet hallway in 2001, he realised:
If he didn't tread lightly…
If he didn't protect her gently…
If he didn't understand the pressure she was under…
He wasn't just going to lose her.
She was going to break.
And he wasn't sure he could watch that happen again.