Glancing at the numbers over the door, I see that we are on floor 14. Her floor. How I managed to hit that button was either a random accident or fate. Glancing around, I see no one at the receptionist's desk in the corridor. Grabbing her hand, I tug her off the elevator behind me. She's not getting an opportunity to run away again. I'm going to get answers. Plus, my pants are feeling a bit tight right now so I can't possibly go out in public.

"Which way?" I bark.

"1424," she whispers, gesturing to the right with her chin.

Leading the way, I wonder what I'm going to say to her when we get there. Seeing her has been serendipitous, but I'm very much afraid that I will lose her again. And that cannot happen. Not after the hell of the last few weeks.

1424. And there's her name on the nameplate. My brain repeats her full name until I've memorized it, although with the first glance, it is seared onto my eyeballs. I turn the doorknob, but it's locked.

"Where's your receptionist?" I ask, waiting for her to find her keys.

"Oh," her small voice replies, "She's the receptionist for the whole floor. She works at that desk we passed. I, uh....I don't have my own receptionist." I don't like the defeated tone, but then she straightens her back, holding her head up high while she wields her keys in the hand I'm not clasping. "Yet," she now sounds determined, and I know that the badass is still in there.

When she unlocks the door, we enter a small waiting room with two plastic chairs, a small coffee table, and some magazines. As soon as I release her hand to lock the main office door behind us, she moves away from me towards the other door. Her inner office is exactly like what I would have pictured: soft, comfy furniture with a rather small desk sat in the corner. There is natural light entering through the window, and plants on several surfaces. A few abstract prints adorn the walls, and the colors are soothing with violets and greens.

Taking a seat in what is obviously her chair, I leave her the sofa. She wanders around the small space while I start my interrogation.

"How have you been?"

She clears her throat, grabbing a tissue to wipe her tear-stained face. "Aren't we past that, Styles? The niceties? How did you find me, anyway?"

I shift slightly in the chair, trying to adjust my cock before it gets too painful. "I don't know if we're past anything," I sigh, "And finding you was a happenstance that I couldn't have planned." She's looking at me, seeking signs that I'm lying, "I had an appointment with a physio in the building, and I saw your receptionist -- sorry. The floor's receptionist. But stepping into the same lift as you...."

My voice trails off as I remember how hot that kiss had been. My leg between hers just as it should be. My fingers in her silky strands, pulling out her messy bun. My tongue tasting her. Fuck. I should really stop wearing these tight pants if I'm going to be in her proximity more frequently.

Falling back onto the sofa wearily, she covers her forehead with her hand in what could be construed as a dramatic pose, but I know she's trying to hide her eyes from me.

"You're saying it was just dumb luck that you walked into the same lift as me?" Her accusatory tone makes me feel like a stalker.

"No," I retort, "I'm saying it was fate. Destiny. You thought you could run away from what we have, but kismet has brought us together." Her eyes widen as she listens to me, and the more I talk, the more deeply I believe what I am saying. "Do you deny that our time together at the gym was special?"

==========

Shaking your head, you try to repudiate his claim, but your mouth won't let you form the words. Mulling over what he's said, you know he's right on some level. You felt the draw too. Some higher power or entity keeps forcing you in the same space, and you don't know why.

Looking him in the eye, you decide to lay all of your cards on the table. What have you got to lose? You tried walking away (okay, running away) from him, and like a boomerang, he came back. Isn't there a saying about that? "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours. If not, it never was." You had set him free, and yet here he was again.

Sitting up, folding your hands demurely in your lap, you take a deep breath and plunge in, "I really, really like you, Styles."

"You've got a funny way of showing it," he mumbles, but he's listening. You can tell because he's fixed you with that green-eyed stare, and he's leaning forward, his entire being focused on you.

Throwing up your hands, slightly exasperated, you gesture around your small office. "Look around, Styles! This is all I have. Right here. These four walls. Well, and the reception area which is a joke. I graduated from UCLA two years ago, and then had to get certified here in the UK so I could open a private practice here. That took time and money I didn't have. Even now, I'm struggling with barely enough clients to pay the rent in this building and my flat. And then I had to pay another gym member---" you freeze, not meaning to add that tidbit into the mix, but dammit! That has cost extra money since you'd signed a contract at the first gym.

He's drawing his finger slowly across his lips, his elbow resting on the side of the chair, "UCLA? That explains the hoodie."

"That's all you've got to say, Styles? I'm trying to build a successful business here, and I'm damn good at what I do. But I won't get any new clients if your fans are always standing around outside or if my face is plastered all over the place as your new girl. I've seen how they freak out online when you're with Glenne or Meredith or Dua, and all three of them are seeing other people." You're angry now, and you're punctuating your words with fire and brimstone, gesticulating wildly. "I will not go back to California with my tail tucked between my legs, especially since that's what my father expects."

Noncommittally, Harry is nodding, biting a bit on his finger. "Mhm," his husky voice murmurs, and you are suddenly exhausted.

Lying back on the sofa, you speak to the ceiling. "It wasn't easy for me, Styles, to walk away from you. If you were just some average guy, I wouldn't hesitate for even a second. We would be going to movies and concerts and dinners and parties and fucking like bunnies." Your voice reveals the agony you feel in missing out on all of that.

"Mhm," is his reply, and you recognize that he's using your therapy tricks: his silence and nonjudgmental responses encourage you to continue digging your own grave.

"I suppose," you continue mulling, "that we could do SOME of that. If we kept it quiet. If we didn't go out in public. If we spent all of our time together privately." Getting to know him on a personal level is your life goal. Does he shave every morning? Does he hum in the shower? How does he answer the phone? What does he write in his journal? You want to know his heart, desires, emotions -- what it's like to live in the skin of Harry Styles.

Now that the idea has come to you, there's hope creeping into your voice, "But what kind of relationship would that be, Styles? Hiding? Sneaking around? You've got promo to do, and I couldn't participate in any of that. And then you'll go on tour and...."

He breaks into your musing, "You're getting ahead of yourself. Go back. Would you really be willing to see me in secret?"

==========

I have suggested this to others in the past and always gotten a loud, fast "hell, no" because most women who become involved with me want the publicity that goes along with the ride. But she isn't "most women". She's unique. And I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. In the back of my head, I know it's not a long-term solution. Eventually, anyone I date will have to be part of my public life. But I don't want to think about that now. If she's willing to give this option a try, then I will get to spend time with her.

Looking at her lying there on the sofa, I have feelings I can't explain. I don't want her to say no because that would mean I won't ever see her again. But I don't want her to say yes either because then I won't be able to share with her the places and experiences that make me happiest.

But I'm also thinking about the new experiences we could create together: laughing at movies in my home theater; cooking; feeding each other takeout; talking as we watch the sun rise from the roof; playing Scrabble in our underwear. Because of course there would be sleepovers. Lots of sleepovers. We could do this. We could actually build our own little world and isolate ourselves. When we're apart for touring or promo, we could Facetime and text and sext.

And now I sincerely want her to say yes. I want to spend more time with her, learning her thoughts, dreams, curves, and mannerisms. What does she like on her pizza? Does she make sounds when she sleeps? Is she a worthy Scrabble opponent?

Abruptly she stands up, stalking to the small refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. She throws one to me which I catch one-handed. Good practice for touring when people tend to throw things at me all the time. Twisting off the cap, she downs half of the bottle, breathing through her nose as she chugs. Watching her throat constrict as she swallows makes me shift again in the chair as my pants tighten.

==========

Pulling the half-full bottle from your lips, you turn to Harry, then burp quietly, covering your mouth with a soft 'excuse me'. Lifting your head and staring him in the eyes, you divulge, "YES." Nothing more. Just one word.

You're frightened and excited, your stomach filled with butterflies flitting around. Harry is entranced. That little burp was so adorable, and the way that you had mostly ignored it made him grin. Pausing, he takes his own long sip from the water bottle in his hand, looking at you over the top of the bottle as he swallows multiple times until the bottle is empty.

Standing up as he screws the cap back onto the bottle, he stalks towards you on the sofa. You feel like a lion's prey watching him approach, cock first, as he enters most rooms.

"Well," he drawls, "maybe we should seal the deal."

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

I almost snort in laughter with that line. It's a bit ridiculous. The truth is that my pants have been getting tighter since I first saw her in the lift, and now that she's agreed not to run away again -- wait. She hasn't agreed to that. Fuck.

Tilting her head up to mine, I cradle her face in my hands, looking down at her on the sofa. But I don't want to ask her while I'm towering over her, so I crouch down in front of her so my face is slightly below hers.

"Love?"

"Mhm?" she responds, licking her lips and locking her gaze on my mouth. Damn. 'Someday I'd like to meet your mouth' was years before its time.

"I'm willing to give this a try. Keeping to ourselves. Staying out of the public eye. Getting to know each other. Because I can only imagine my future life next to you. These last few weeks were miserable -- even at the height of the hype about my solo debut."

She frowns and starts to speak, "Styles. I'm sorry. You should be on top of the world right now. Cause damn. That song. And your SNL debut. I'm so proud of you and your accomplishments. You shouldn't be miserable right now for any reason."

Briefly I consider calling her out about her comment on the lift about hating the damn song, but this decidedly is not the time for that conversation.

Nodding, I allow my lips to just brush across hers. The electricity that sparks from that single move nearly knocks me back on my ass. "I'm not feeling miserable right now. But we need to have an understanding."

Her eyes have moved from my mouth up to my eyes, and I inhale deeply at the light shining from them. Shaking my head to get back on track, "You can't keep running away. When you decide it's time to end this, you have to promise that you will tell me."

==========

You nod, noticing that he has given you all of the control over when to end this. His eyes have trapped yours, and you can't get enough air in your lungs. He is so handsome with those bangs pushed back by the force of his sunglasses on top of his head. Exuding sex from every pore of his body, you also glimpse the hurt you caused him by disappearing, and you know there's no way to make up for that pain.

"Need to hear you say it." He prods, and the air is sucked out of the room as you form the words.

Looking deeply into his eyes, noticing the flecks of darker green mixed with the lighter green, you declare, "I hereby promise that I will not run away from you again, Styles. Furthermore, I vow to discuss with you when the time is right to end this...." you falter a bit, seeking the precise word, finally settling on "relationship."

Harry starts to rise, but you pull him back into his squat. "Now you need to make me a promise too, Styles."

======

Bewildered, I stare at her for endless moments. What kind of vow could I make? I wasn't the one who ran away. When it dawns on me the guarantee she wants, I take both of her hands in mine. Her hands are clammy and warm, and that's when I notice that the room is unbearably warm too.

"I pledge to do everything in my power to protect your identity from being released to the general public." Her body relaxes as she hears my assurance.

From my squatting position, I lean forward, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, my tongue stroking hers over and over as I take my fill of her taste. Our little ceremony has made me feel more committed to her, and I want to make her happy. No. More than that. I want to make her feel an ecstasy she has not yet experienced.

Shifting to my knees, I start to unbutton and unzip her pants. She puts her hands on mine to stop me, and I make eye contact with her, pausing to find out what's wrong. "Styles," she whispers, "here?"

Wiping my brow which has filled with sweat, I nod. "Need you. Badly. When is your next client?"

She glances at the clock on the wall behind her -- strategically placed so that the therapist can see it but the patient can't -- "41 minutes." She breathes out.

"Plenty of time," I continue unzipping her slacks, "Lift up for me." She raises her bottom from the sofa so that I can remove her trousers, folding them neatly and laying them on the coffee table. I want her to look nice for her next client – not like she's just had a quick fuck on the sofa.