Stunned, I watch her leave the room. I'm desperate to know more, to taste more. To find out what haunts her. What makes her so fearful? Why did she run away again? We had shared that lovely moment when I felt like we were connecting on a very real level.

Like a whirlwind, I frantically dive back into my workout clothes and wait impatiently outside of the ladies' dressing room. I get a few weird looks, but once I sign a few autographs, they move on. I'm leaning against the wall opposite when she reappears, her bag slung over her shoulder.

"You!" She exclaims as she sees me standing there, her look displaying obvious surprise with a little pleasure revealing itself in her shy smile as she ducks her head.

I push myself away from the wall, straightening up. "I'm not stalking you. I swear," I begin, knowing how lame it sounds since here I am, waiting for her, so my voice trails off.

She walks past me, her tailored slacks outlining her curvy shape while her soft grey sweater accentuates her cleavage. The highly tailored look gives her an air of aloofness.

"I've got to get to work." She breathes, and I can tell that she's trying to hold herself together -- to be as regal as a queen. But she can't pull it off. I've seen into her soul, and I know that she has no sharp edges.

Reaching out to her just before she arrives at the front desk, I attempt to stop her. "I just want to get to know you. See you outside of the gym. Can't we go out to dinner?"

The panicked look has returned to her face now that we're nearing the front door. Her eyes are darting around, and she freezes, turning back to me, practically snarling, "DO NOT follow me out of here!"

I'm taken aback at her tone, but something tells me it's fear talking again. Raising my hands in the universal signal for surrender, I back away, "Okay. I won't follow you outside. But please. Please. Can I see you again? Tomorrow? Here?"

The mixture of emotions that crosses her face at my request breaks my heart. There's fear and desire and panic and happiness and dread and excitement. Her face can't seem to settle on one until finally, with a quick bite of her lip, she gives one brief nod, barely perceptible to anyone from far away before she turns and unleashes herself on the world outside.

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

The next morning, you are quivering after almost no sleep. Why had you agreed to meet him? Are you that horny? Are your hormones driving the bus? You're unsure where you're supposed to meet, and your usual morning calm has fled. Deciding to sweat it out, you head to the treadmills again, this time picking up the pace to a jog, your ponytail bouncing behind you. You've run nearly two kilometers when Harry finds you.

He takes a moment to appreciate you; your boobs bouncing in opposite from your ponytail. Not a trace of makeup mars your face, and he realizes that he's mostly seen you without the armor that you typically wear as a mask in public.

Your cheekbones and jawline have captured his attention once more, and the nose that you once thought needed rhinoplasty makes him smile with its pertness. Relief floods his body, as he wasn't sure you would show this morning. He's glad to see your neon pink Nikes, black workout pants and bright orange sports bra. He suspects that you show your true personality in the colors of your workout clothes because the work clothes which he has observed have been fairly bland.

Climbing on the treadmill next to you, he sets his pace to match your own. Today he's wearing his gym shorts, but no leggings. He doesn't want to waste time having to take them off should he need to dress or undress quickly. He's covered his four nipples and his butterfly tattoo with a gray tank top, but the tails of the swallows are still visible on his chest.

You acknowledge him with a nod as you continue your steady pace, sans earbuds. Your stomach drops when you spot him, and you are once again filled with that familiar fear plus a full dose of pleasure that this gorgeous creature has followed through on his word to meet you. Will pictures of the two of you appear in tomorrow's Sun? Would they be plastered all over social media later today? Thankfully, this part of the gym is fairly secluded as you've chosen two treadmills behind a pillar.

When you've jogged companionably for a few minutes, Harry starts a conversation, "So, what is it that you do?" He calls you by your first name, and you are jarred briefly, missing a step. He grabs your arm to keep you upright.

"Sorry," he apologizes, "I forgot you didn't tell me. Your friend -- the one you were at spin class with -- she let it drop. Accidentally. Please don't be mad at her."

Shaking your head, you struggle to gather your composure as you get back into your rhythm. "Not mad at her. And she's my receptionist. I just....wasn't expecting it. It's only fair, I suppose. I know who you are."

"Yeah, I got that," he teases, "And I suppose you know what I do for a living."

Laughing, "Well, if being the darling of the UK is a job description, then yes, I know what you do for a living. Young nobody with the voice of an angel manages to get placed in a group with four other somewhat-talented boys. And the five of you become the most popular band since the Beatles. Girls screaming and crying and tearing at your clothes."

Harry glances at you with an expression that appears to be humility, and you plow on, "And now you're going to be in a Christopher Nolan movie and release your own solo music."

"You know way more about me than I know about you." He relishes your knowledge of his accomplishments, particularly the most recent ones.

Embarrassed, you blush, looking down at your feet on the treadmill. "I promise I'm not a stalker fan. I've never even seen you in concert. Well, not live anyway."

If Harry's eyebrows could migrate further up his forehead, they would be at his hairline. "Pray tell me more."

Sighing, you decide to answer him, tight lipped, not giving everything away. "I saw you on Carpool Karaoke and did some research on the great Harry Edward Styles."

"Fuck me," he marvels under his breath, "You know my full name. And you know about the movie. And the solo music. But you've never asked me for an autograph or a selfie. In fact, I would swear you've gone out of your way to avoid me."

Chuckling, you glance over at him, "Yes. I've avoided you."

"But why?" he asks wondrously.

"You and I...." you start, and then break into laughter. Harry, recognizing the One Direction lyric, also starts laughing. This feels good. The two of you relate briefly like normal human beings, and the tension cracks a tiny bit more.

When the giggles finally evaporate, you grow serious, "I'm a psychologist. New to the profession. New to London. New to everything. And I need to focus on building my practice. So that means that anything that could get in the way of new patients finding me has to be on the back burner."

The truth dawns on Harry, and he sobers from his earlier frivolity. "That's why you don't want to be seen with me, isn't it? You're right. One hundred percent right. My presence in your life could definitely detract from your career goals, especially if my fans get wind of anything between us."

Nodding, you turn off the treadmill, turning to face Harry as you wipe the sweat from your face with your towel. "I like you, Styles. You're funny. And witty. And you have a killer smile. And you make my panties wet."

Harry stumbles on that last announcement, reaching to turn the treadmill off lest he fall over, especially since he didn't attach the safety key.

"But I cannot get involved with you even though I'm attracted." You state, gathering your water bottle and starting to walk away from him. Every fiber of your being is calling out for him to stop you and list all of the reasons why you should get involved even though you know it would be best to walk away.

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

Stupefied, I cannot speak for several seconds after she makes her announcement and sashays away. What the fuck? She tells me I make her panties wet, and in the same breath insists she can't be involved with me? What fresh hell is this?

When I finally catch my breath and gather my thoughts from her proclamation, she has once more disappeared, and I'm busy lambasting myself for not moving faster. But what the fuck does one say to a woman who has simultaneously turned you on and off?

I finally get my legs moving, searching for her. She was here right at opening time, I would bet, and it's now an hour later, so she's probably getting ready for work, preparing to slide into her boring work persona of blacks and browns and greys. But maybe she will take a steam first. It's where I found her yesterday. Maybe she's there again?

Once again, I mimic a superhero, changing into nothing more than a towel in 30 seconds flat. Heading for the steam room, I grab the "Out of Order" sign off of a stall in the loo and a chair from the dressing room. Taking both with me, I head to the steam room, hanging the sign on the door before I steel myself and open the vault, steam escaping rapidly before I can pull the chair in behind me.

Glancing around, I am vindicated. There she is. Once more lying on the bench, her arm over her eyes this time. Her body appears to be heaving. Is she crying? Fuck. Why would she be crying? I search the space, spotting no other bodies on the wooden benches, so I wedge the chair under the door handle to prevent any unwelcome visitors from entering.

Cautiously, I approach her. Sitting on the bench, I start to reach out to her, but then I hesitate. She's just told me that she doesn't want to get involved. Fuck. I'm a gentleman. My mum raised me to consider the girl's feelings first. What if she meant it? What if she really doesn't want to get involved with me?

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

You try to compose yourself, but you're astounded that you had the courage to walk away.  Once in the steam room, your emotions overcome you, and you burst into tears.  When you hear the door, you know it's him.  But now that you know he's here -- that he's followed you -- you try to get control of your emotions.  This is the time you need to be strongest.  You will need to turn him away again.  Because he hasn't followed you to ask for your recipe for kale salad.

When he settles on the bench next to you, he says nothing at first, and you appreciate the silence.  The chance to compose yourself and your thoughts.  You know he will speak eventually, and you brace yourself.  What will he say?  How will he react to your childish behavior?  Because that's what it is.  You've been a sullen teenager, telling him he makes you wet and then walking away.  What kind of terrible tease are you?

Sniffling, you whisper, "I'm sorry."

You hear him shift. "Sorry for what?"  His voice is mesmerized and uncertain, and he has to clear his throat afterwards due to the hoarseness that croaks out. 

"For telling you that I'm attracted to you but not willing to get involved," you respond bravely, "That wasn't fair."

"What would have been more fair?" he replied, reaching out to stroke your arm.  You shudder from his touch, and he starts to withdraw his hand, but you grab for it quickly, holding it closely to your skin until he starts to move his fingers again over your sweaty flesh.

"I shouldn't have encouraged you, and I shouldn't encourage you now." You whisper, as the tears start anew, sliding down your cheeks.  "I should have just told you – should just tell you – to leave me alone. I'm a tease."

Shifting closer to you, he entwines his fingers with yours, "It's not about being fair.  You told me the truth, and I appreciate that.  More than you know.  So many people in my life tell me what they think I want to hear.  It's nice to hear the truth sometimes.  Even if it's a truth I don't want to acknowledge."

Raising your tear-stained eyes to make contact with his, you grip his hand tighter, "I just....I want you, Styles.  But it's not fair.  To you.  To me. To either of us."

When he looks at you with a single eyebrow raised, you elaborate, "You're just so amazing, and you deserve a relationship with a gorgeous woman who can handle the press and the limelight.  I can't offer that."

Bringing your joined hands to his lips, Harry presses a kiss to each of your fingers, "Who says I want a relationship?" He asks gently.

In his head, Harry is screaming that of course he wants a relationship.  Marriage!  Kids!  Anniversaries!  Birthday celebrations!  A lifetime of sex!  But he refrains from saying that because it's such a foreign thought to him.  He's never wanted that before.  Not with a particular person anyway.  Lots of times he has wanted the happily-ever-after dream.  He's never named a specific person in that future fantasy.  The vision of you holding his firstborn while pregnant with his second overwhelms him, and he sucks in a breath, pressing a tighter kiss to your hand, squeezing more tightly than anticipated.  It's such a clear picture he cannot push it away.  Fuck.  He's just met you.  He knows nothing about you.  Literally nothing more than your first name, that you're American, and that you've recently opened a practice as a psychologist. 

But his soul knows you.  And his heart knows you.  Deeply.  Passionately.  At a level he's never experienced before.  Without question, he wants you in his life.  In whatever capacity you're capable.   

Confused, you look at him, "Don't lie to me.  You want a relationship, and I'm not offering that."

Taking a deep breath, Harry debates before asking, "What are you offering?"  For he knows that he will take whatever you are willing to give.  Consequences be damned. 

Shocked at his response, you have to take a minute to contemplate the question.  What are you offering?  If not a relationship, then what?  Friendship?  Fuck no!  You can't be friends with him.  Not with your panties getting damp every time he's within 10 km of you.

Closing your eyes, you steel yourself to be as honest as you can be, knowing that right now there's only one thing you're willing to give him:  your body.  You are confident he's an experienced lover, and it's been far too long since you've experienced the highs that come from sex.  And once will surely be enough, right?

Taking his hand wrapped in yours and guiding it below the bottom edge of your towel, you don't even hesitate before you bring his fingers in touch with your core.  Harry's eyes have fixed on yours, and his breathing adjusts as he comes in contact with the hairs at your entrance. 

Releasing your hand, he allows his fingers to hover just at the edge of your folds.  You've made the offer, but should he accept?