I wonder if she's here tonight. Bribing the manager to let me use the back entrance for my workout only cost me the price of a short video for his daughter. He's promised not to say where it was taken, and I'm confident it's already posted on Twitter or Facebook or some other social media site. The fans are probably scouring it for details, but the only thing they will see is my face with a beanie covering my hair. My grey t-shirt doesn't give away my location, and the manager isn't wearing clothing with the name of the gym on it. Of course, there are ways to find out everything these days, so it's unlikely that my presence here will remain a secret.

Since spotting her the other night, I've been a bit obsessed. She won't leave my brain alone, and I keep trying to figure out why I'm drawn to her. Every time I close my eyes, her face appears. Normally I try to vary my workout routine and location to avoid the fans and paps, but I can tell that she's a creature of habit. And I'm determined to see her again. I need to see her again.

There she is. I've got to stop for a second because she has literally taken my breath away. Sitting on the bicycle, sweat dripping down her chest as she sits up straight, strengthening her core muscles as her legs continue to pump, she's laughing. And her laughter makes my stomach clench. The way her head is thrown back, highlighting her glorious chin. The way her hair in its messy bun leaves a few tendrils framing her face. The sound of her laughter is like a punch in the gut. It rings out over the music, floating to me across the wave of grunts and complaints from the participants in the class.

She's chatting with the older woman on the next bicycle over, and they are oblivious to the instructor's directions. The rest of the group is bent over now as they pedal, lifting and lowering their asses from the seats, but she and her friend continue to sit up straight, laughing melodiously.

There are dozens of beautiful women here in the room. Why does this one draw my eye? What is it about her?

Today she's wearing white leggings and bright green shorts with a yellow sports bra, and I note the Packers colours just before I stumble over some idiot kneeling in the aisle to tie his shoelaces. Scrambling up, I make sure the bloke's okay, and then when I look around for HER on the bicycles, she's vanished.

The next hour is spent searching the entire gym for her as I work out. Let's face it. I'm not doing any real working out. Just moving from room to room, my heart pounding as I seek her. Finally I see her friend -- the one from the spin class. Casually, I approach, feeling a bit like a tiger on the prowl, trying to maintain a nonchalant attitude.

"Hey," I say indifferently, "I saw you with someone earlier that I thought I recognized. What's her name again?"

And when she tells me the name, I nod vigorously and say, "Yes. That's her! I thought she looked familiar. I wonder where she went?"

Her friend looks at me shrewdly, and I can tell she doesn't believe me. Shrugging, she sighs, "I think she already left. Said something about needing to change her workout routine and hours."

Crushed, I return to my own workout, bench pressing while I'm here. With each extension of the bar over my head, I repeat her name in my head, over and over. It's such a lovely name, and it suits her so well.

============================

After seeing Harry again at the gym last night, you rushed to get out of there and home before you had another encounter with his sexiness. Which left your workout far from complete. Again.

All of which leads to why you're here at five this morning as the doors to the gym open. It's quieter at this time of the morning, the usual noisy bustle of people wide awake replaced with the hushed tranquility of those still sleepy, not quite ready to start the day.

Your stomach growls, as you are usually just waking up at this time with a cup of coffee and your journal. Journaling has long been a regular part of your daily morning routine, allowing you to empty your brain which really helps you focus on your patients for the day.

This morning you've opted for a pool workout, and you've worn your one piece swimsuit under your workout pants and hoodie. As you remove the hoodie, you shake your head, wondering why you bothered to wear it again. He's already seen it, and he's already asked about it. Wouldn't it be smart to wear something different? But you hadn't wanted to rummage through your closet this morning looking for something else, and besides, you are fairly confident you won't run into him again today. After all, he works out in the evenings.

The back and forth of laps in the pool helps tire out your limbs, but your thoughts keep returning to him. Harry Styles. The simmering sex in his eyes when he'd asked you about the treadmill. The sultry sound of his voice when he'd asked about your favorite donut. Slapping harder at the water with each stroke, you will your mind to think of other things.

==============

Three nights now. And she hasn't appeared once. Unfortunately, the fans have figured out my routine, so the crowds at the entrance are growing every evening. I remind myself that there are plenty of women out there willing to take my attention away from this one.

Knowing that the staff has done their best to keep the more rabid fans away, I decide to change my workout time, effectively giving up on the pert pretty woman with the sharp tongue and soft eyes. This early morning time used to bug me when we were touring, but that was because I never felt like I could get enough sleep. With the hiatus, things have been busy, but sleep has once more become a balanced part of my life.

As I round the corner from the weight room, I spot what I think could be her heading into the steam room. It's hard to tell because the woman is wearing one towel with another looped around her neck, but I recognize the line of her jaw. Like Superman changing clothes in a phone booth, I scramble into the locker room and strip to nothing, adding a towel around my own waist as I scurry back to the steam room. Spotting an employee nearby, I stop him.

"Yes, Mr. Styles?" He asks politely.

"I'm going to the steam room, and I don't want any photographs of me there. You know how it is." I imply that the young man is used to women ogling his body in the steam room, and he readily nods. "Would you mind putting an out of order sign on the door until I get out?"

When he agrees, I take a few deep breaths before pulling open the door, the steam wafting out. Yes, it's sneaky of me to do this, but I have an excuse. Okay. Yeah. I have absolutely no plausible excuse. Other than I want to get to know her.

==============================

You've been enjoying the steam room every morning at the end of your workout lately. It's a great way to start your day, as the steam cleanses your body and mind. So far, no one else has ever entered while you are enjoying the wet heat. It's made you lax, as you're lying unwrapped and fully naked on your towel on the wooden bench. So when you hear the door open, you scramble to pull the ends of the towel back over your body. Christ. Had whoever come in seen you in your birthday suit? Best to ignore the other person just in case. You put your second towel over your eyes pretending to be asleep, although your unsteady breathing gives you away immediately.

The steam room has seating for at least a dozen people, but the person who has entered chooses to lie on the bench just below you. The two of you settle into silence, and you start to breathe easier when there's no talk.

You relaxed too soon.

"Did you change your workout times because of me?" His raspy voice chases chills down your spine, and you stiffen.

It's him. Holy fucking hell. It's HIM. What the fuck? And how should you respond? Dammit. You had just found your chill, thinking of him less frequently. Okay, not true, especially since his advert had been on telly the other night. And he was dripping wet in that 30 second clip, which is probably how he looked right now here in the steam room. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Calmly, you respond, trying to infuse ice into your tone. "I got tired of fighting the crowds to get in here at night." Instead of ice, though, you're fairly sure the words come out on the opposite end of the frost-to-heat spectrum.

Hearing him shift on the bench, you remove the towel from your face and open one eye to find Harry on his side, leaning on his elbow, gazing at you through those frayed damp bangs hanging over his right eye.

"Wish you hadn't covered up when I came in," he drawls, and you blush furiously.

"No one's usually in here during the mornings," you make the excuse, vowing to never again lie naked in any steam room anywhere.

He smirks, extending his hand across his body. "I'm Harry." he boasts.

"I know." You reply, refusing to link hands. Standard convention would suggest that this is where you tell him your name. Your petulance won't let you give him that courtesy.

When you don't make a move towards him, instead covering your eyes once more with the extra towel, Harry runs the back of his hand down your arm, raising goosebumps on the flesh. Your breathing shifts, quickening at his touch. Fuck. Why does his hand feel so good on your sweaty skin?

Harry notices two things. You haven't left his presence, told him to stop, or slapped his hand away. And your breathing has changed.

"I noticed you the other day." Harry reveals.

"Mhm." You mumble, trying to maintain your calm. But fuck. Your skin is seared forever from his touch. And his deep, sensual voice makes you wet in other places untouched by the steam.

He continues, emboldened now, tracing his finger along the towel's boundary between your exposed skin and your covered breasts. "At the door when you pushed past me."

This surprises you, as you hadn't known he had even seen you in that crowd. "And again on the treadmill," which obviously you knew, "and then the next night in spin class when you ran away."

Throwing off the towel covering your eyes, you twist yourself so that you are facing him as he faces you. "I did not run away," you sputter, shaking a finger at him.

Raising his eyebrow, Harry smirks because he's finally gotten a rise out of you. "Really? Why'd you leave then? The workout wasn't over. Your friend was still spinning. And then you changed your whole routine, working out in the mornings now, eh?"

"I was....uh....I wasn't feeling well. And I told you that I changed to mornings because of the crowds." You are trying to be haughty again, but it's harder when you're naked and your pussy is wet from his proximity.

"Ah, yes. They tend to find me wherever I go." He sighs, and you can sense in that sigh the burden of years of raving fans hiding and jumping out, following him, stalking him.

"I know," you whisper, and damn it if your fucking empathy isn't kicking in, "It must be hard to get any privacy."

His eyes fly to yours, trapping your gaze, and you draw in a breath at the gratitude you see there. "You understand." He whispers back, and the hushed tones have taken this conversation in a different direction than either of you had anticipated.

"I do," you reply, "and I'm sorry that your life has become such a circus."

Sitting cross-legged on the bench facing you, adjusting his towel around his legs so that his cock doesn't make a surprise appearance, Harry reaches out to touch your face. Your eyes drift close as he runs his finger along your jawline, his thumb ending over your lips.

The feel of his touch reminds you of who you are in a professional capacity and awakens you. Of course you understand. This is your curse. You understand his feelings completely. In fact, you feel his feelings as if they were your own. Abruptly, you sit up, holding the towel tightly at your breasts so it doesn't unravel. You can't stay here. You can't do this. You listen to everyone's problems, and you cannot become sympathetic to his. You cannot fall in love with him. As if love were even an option for him. But for you? It's a very real danger. And your practice wouldn't survive the onslaught of media were this to develop into something more. Or were a single picture of the two of you to surface.

Harry stands when you do, unsure what changed. Being the gentleman he is, he grasps your elbow as you step down the benches to the floor of the steam room.

"I have to go." You tell him, panic rising in you.

He nods, as he recognizes that something has spooked you. If only he knew what it was. Your eyes are darting around the room as if you're afraid the boogeyman has somehow been hiding under the benches or is going to emerge from the steam.

"Just...." he begins, pausing, "I thought...." and he shakes his head. He starts his sentence again, this time winding his hand around your neck, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, "Don't go." And suddenly his mouth is crushing yours, his lips feverishly moving over yours, and you gasp. The feel of his finger on your skin earlier had burned, but the feel of his tongue stokes fires inside you that you didn't know existed. Feverishly, dripping with sweat from the heat of the room and from your own nervousness, you return his kiss with passion, stroking his tongue with your own. You cannot get close enough to him, and you want to remove both of your towels and become one with him. Tilting your head further back, Harry sips again and again at your mouth, winding his other arm around your back and pulling you tightly to him. His mouth devours you, and you allow it. No. Not allow. You encourage it. You delight in it. You relish it. You demand more.

Your head is spinning, and it takes all of your willpower to back away from him, reaching behind you for the door to the steam room. His dazed look follows you, but he holds himself still as you exit the room, wanting to follow and knowing he can't.

It takes you longer than usual to get ready for work, as you stand under the spray of the cold water in the shower for a solid ten minutes, trying to regain your composure, trying to fathom what had just happened. You had tried so hard to stay away from him. And here you are -- drowning in emotions that will surely fuck up your carefully planned life and career.