This is going to sound ridiculous. I'm aware of how it comes across, so please do not send me fan mail or hate mail or Tweet me about it or any of that. I know it seems childish. The truth is, though, Minnie makes me feel much younger than my 30 years.

We're sitting on the floor of my Tribeca apartment, chopsticks in hand, feeding each other sushi. On the television is a cheesy movie that stars some people I knew ages ago when I first started in One Direction. A few of the people I knew back then have not fared well as they've aged. It's a reminder that I'm fortunate to have experienced such a long, lucrative, and prestigious career. I take none of it for granted.

She laughs as the piece of sashimi she'd been holding falls into the soy sauce, spattering on the plate. We were competing in a game of Scrabble earlier, and she is still giggling over the word I chose to place on a triple word score. (It was slightly naughty, but with the q in it, I'd managed to get a fairly high score.) Picking up the sashimi again in her chopsticks, she raises it to my lips, letting it dangle over my open mouth before she swoops in and devours the piece of salmon herself. I pout, but then she kisses me, and that makes me happy. The playful way she laughs while she's using her tongue to entice me is....well....hot. Erotic. There's no other way to describe the experience.

The fire is lit, and the glow lights up the room and warms us in our spots on the rug. When the movie ends, she calls out for the television to change the channel, and suddenly, Xavier and I are on the screen. Stilling, I instruct the TV to turn up the volume. I joke about being narcissistic, but really I'm constantly terrified that I will say the wrong thing during press, especially during an open dialogue. Until I've watched an interview multiple times, I cannot convince myself that I didn't somehow screw up. Carefully, I listen and observe, watching every nuance of my facial expressions and listening closely to Jimmy's comments and questions. Xavier is quite witty, and I feel my pride growing as though I have some ownership in his success on the show.

Minnie tilts her head this way and that, observing me before returning her attention to the screen. I see the wheels churning in her head, and I choose to pretend not to notice. Naturally, it's impossible. Because during the commercial break, she gives me her eagle eye as she instructs the television to "mute".

"Why do you get anxious watching it?" she asks, and I shrug. This is not a conversation I want to engage in.

But in typical Minnie fashion, she doesn't say anything further, and I watch the slick commercial for dishwasher detergent as I try to figure out my response. Wait. She doesn't need a response. Why am I considering answering her? It's perfectly acceptable for me to ignore her question.

She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, tilting her head to contemplate me. After a minute, the commercial changes to one for condoms, and I breathe a sigh of relief as Minnie effortlessly unfolds her legs, carrying our sushi plates to the kitchen.

But if I thought she was going to drop the issue, I'm sadly mistaken. When she comes back, she sits cross-legged on the floor facing me, her eyes on my face as the images flicker silently on the screen.

I do my best to ignore her, unmuting the sound as the show returns from commercial break. I'm hyper aware of her as I watch the continued interview on the Tonight Show. Her eyes don't move from my face. Not once does she so much as glance at the screen. She merely observes me, and I can feel the heat of her gaze on my skin.

It's distracting, and I can barely focus on whether my pores are too big or whether I'm being too flippant or if my dimple is showing too much. But she doesn't look away from me. So on the next commercial break, I twist my body to face hers, and I take a deep breath, "I'm anxious because I want to do a good job."

That's what I tell her, and that's what I mean. She smiles. She nods. And then she asks me, "What's a good job look like?"

Fuck. I hate her. Except I don't. I live for her. I long for her. Olivia. Minnie. Whatever she chooses to call herself, she's asking me an important question, and I don't know how to answer. Not really. But I decide to take a stab at the challenge anyway.

"Uh.....it's when I don't say anything dumb, and I make whatever I'm promoting sound so amazing that everyone chooses to check it out. Oh, and if I don't pick my nose on screen."

This puts a smile on her face, but it's not a full smile, and I can tell she's thinking of what to ask me next. She's determined to make me feel less anxious during interviews -- or while watching my interviews.

And then I do something stupid. I say to her "How is this any of your business?" She turns back to the TV, pretending she hasn't heard me. But I know she has because of the tears in her eyes, and I feel like shit.

"No. No. You're right. It's none of my business."

And although I agree with her, her comments make me feel worse. Who am I to be upset that someone is worried about me? Why do I think I don't need assistance? She's 100 percent correct, and I feel ridiculous for questioning her. Sometimes she scares me because she knows me better than I know myself. This is one of those times.

"Minnie," I start, "I hear what you're not saying. But you have to know something really important," and I pause.

She looks at me, waiting patiently. Finally, she asks, "What do I need to know?"

"My anxiety won't go away...." Her shoulders droop at my words. "But you make it more bearable."

She beams at me. Like --- I don't even know how to describe it. She smiles so wide, her teeth blind me with their beauty. She looks happy.

Scooting around so that she is seated next to me instead of opposite me, Minnie rests her head on my shoulder. It is about ninety seconds into the next part of the interview that she whispers to me, and I strain to hear her. "I don't even know how to respond to that, Harry."

I wrap my arm around her, and we watch the rest of the show, including our Lip Sync Battle and the musical guest for the night. As the credits roll, I tighten my arm, reaching for the hem of her shirt and sliding my other hand underneath to touch the smooth skin of her stomach. She shivers.

"That's cold," she breathes, but she doesn't move away.

"Don't worry. I'll warm you," is my response as I push her shirt further up while my hand glides in the direction of her perky boobs. Turning my body, I remove my fingers from the t-shirt she had put on for sleeping (one of mine by the way), planting my hands on either side of her body as I lean closer, kneeling as I capture her mouth with mine. As usual, our lips catch on fire, our tongues tangling as I cup her cheek, guiding her backwards so she's lying on the rug. I follow her to the ground, nestling my hips between her splayed legs. Kissing down her chin and onto her neck, I once more slide my hands under her shirt, this time headed straight for those soft mounds. Pushing her t-shirt over her breasts, I take one nip into my mouth as I massage the other tit, kneading it gently.

She arches her back, moaning, and I find that it really doesn't take much for me to get hard. Damn. I live for you. I long for you. Her hands are roaming my back, bunching my t-shirt in her hands as she pulls it up to my shoulder blades. When I shift my mouth to her other boob, I also slide my hand into the waistband of her (well, technically MY) sweatpants, allowing my thumb to rub just at the edge of her panties. Then I slip my thumb under that waistband as well, and when Minnie starts squirming, I know it's time to move on.

Hooking both of my thumbs in the waistband of the sweatpants, I wiggle them over her hips and down her legs until she kicks them off completely. Moving myself back between her legs, I smile.

"You're wearing my pants," I giggle, snapping the waistband.

"Oh? Is that a problem?" she arches one eyebrow, "I assumed that theft of underwear was a perk of our relationship."

How can she possibly look so incredibly sexy lying there in my Calvin Kleins while my t-shirt (Coldplay this time) is pushed up to expose her entire torso? A better question is why no man has snatched her up before now when she clearly is a brilliant specimen of the female human form -- AND she knows how to keep me calm because she's a skilled listener. So how is she still single?

"Minnie, baby," I ask as my lips trace their way up her torso, "How is it that a woman as amazing as you doesn't have a line of men at her door every night?"

Her fingers tangle in my hair as she pulls my face to hers, pressing her lips to mine, devouring my mouth, her tongue chasing in and out.

"I suppose because I enjoy being single," she shrugs as we come up for air.

"Don't you ever get lonely?" is my question because, even though I like my quiet time, I also love to hang out with my closest friends. I used to get lonely more often, but as I've aged, alone time has become more valued in my life.

"Mmmmm...." she mutters, wrapping her arms around my back, and flipping us over so that I'm on the bottom and she hovers above me. Copying my previous actions, she bunches my shirt up, exposing my tattoos and nipples. Kissing her way up my body, she stops to tease my nip with her tongue, and now I'm the one who squirms. It feels so good when she does that, especially when she closes her teeth lightly around the tip, applying very gentle pressure.

Releasing my nip nop, she grins at me as she starts to inch slowly towards the string tying my sweatpants. With a knowing smile, she unties the knot there, maneuvering the soft material off my lower half. She gets a little surprise to find I'm not wearing any pants, and she looks up at me, smirking.

"Someone apparently has stolen all of my underpants," I giggle, and she slyly slides her lips over just the head of my cock, sucking with the slightest pressure. My laugh changes to a gasp as I draw in air through my teeth.

Engulfing my manhood entirely in her mouth, I watch her cheeks hollow as she applies suction, and I wrap her hair in my hand so that I can watch her mouth as she pumps up and down on me. With an audible pop, she releases me, and that's when I decide I need to be buried inside her. Pulling her up by wrapping my arms around her pits, I twist us again so that she's on the bottom.

Fuck. I've forgotten a condom. "Be right back," I mumble, pushing myself up and scrambling to my bedroom where I have a stash of my favorite brand. Nearly stubbing my toe in my haste, I turn to find her at the door to the room. She must have followed me.

Leaning on the door jamb, clad only in my underpants and t-shirt that's still bunched around her chest, she surveys me. "You have an aversion to beds?" she asks, and I freeze.

No. Not an aversion. But it's a huge leap for me to fuck her in my bed. A rug is much easier to replace than a bed. Plus I'd spent a huge chunk of change on that bed. Sleeping with her in it is one thing, but....

My hesitation has been enough of a hint, and I watch as she puts two and two together in her head.

"Oh," she deflates, turning to head back to the front room. Or maybe to put on my pants so she can leave. I watch her bum sway as she walks away, and it clicks for me then. This is what has been our issue all along. We keep pushing each other away.

"Minnie?" I ask, and she stalls, not turning to face me. "Do you ever get lonely?" It's the second time I've voiced the question, and I'm not sure if she will make the connection. This is our pattern, and maybe we can break it. Maybe.

So slowly that she might be a dancer on an old music box as it winds down, she pivots, catching my eyes. That's when I know that she is well aware of my unspoken deal.

"Not much anymore. I used to get lonely, but...." her voice trails off, and I use her trick. I wait silently. "I've been on my own a long time, Harry. People get too close and they inevitably hurt you."

I nod because I know exactly what she means. Not that everyone I've ever been close to has hurt me, but disappointment happens more often than I would like. She has taken two steps towards me while speaking, and I move closer to her as well until we are almost within touching distance.

Swallowing, I motion with my head towards the bed. Her eyes widen, and she watches me warily as I stand in front of her, naked from the waist down, my t-shirt not covering anything other than my chest tattoos.

"It's okay, Harry," she speaks in a muted tone, "I understand. We're okay where we were."

It's a crucial moment. We can either return to our fuck buddy status or up our game, and she's leaving the decision up to me. Part of me is pissed because she should have equal say in the verdict. But I realize we're on my home turf, so the decision is mine. In her mind at least.