A/N - ok, here is my second offering for this story. Not sure it has the same affect as the first chapter intended to. Hope you like it all the same. I'm trying to continue the theme without making it too cliched or corny. Enjoy...

He was still wondering about how best to avoid his imminent death, or so it felt, as he made his way lethargically into the apartment. Why he felt so sluggish he didn't know. Pulling a double was always tough; it was the millstone around his neck that added the extra strain. Maybe it was already happening and he was slowly coming to a halt. Perhaps she were some contradictory poison – both wonderful and deadly – that was already under his skin, swimming through his veins, poisoning every part of him that was able to feel.

Extracting a beer from the fridge, as habitually as Doc Robbins could remove a gall bladder, he plodded wearily into the living area and took some solace in the comfort of the couch. The soft cushions enveloped his frame, caressing his aching muscles, hugging him almost. Realising that getting such comfort from a piece of furniture and not the woman of his dreams was a little pathetic, he felt a new incentive towards his earlier decision to tell her how he felt.

Running his fingers over the patterns made by the condensation on the bottle, he contemplated how he could word it. What he could say…

'Hey, have a nice evening? By the way I'm obsessed with you,' He spoke the words aloud to an imaginary vision of her and almost laughed at how absurd that sounded.

Obsession. That was a strong word to use; a dangerous game to play. A word associated with the worst of psychopathic criminals. Murderers. Stalkers. He was neither of these. The only crime he was guilty of was loving someone so intensely without any knowledge of how she felt towards him. If she felt anything at all. Besides, obsessed psychopathic stalkers usually had some kind of sexual fixation to go with it. This attraction he had to her wasn't just some masculine desire he had to be with a beautiful woman. There was no denying he felt the physical affects of being near her but there was something else. Her grace, her confidence, the sadness that lay beneath her eyes that he just wanted to protect her from whatever pain she had felt; whatever wrongs had been done to her. He wanted to be her comfort, her confidante, her soul mate.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes and forehead before tracing his fingers through his hair, ruffling the wilted spikes some more. Who was he trying to kid? There was no way in the world that he could tell her how he felt. She would laugh in his face. No she was too good for that. She would think he was making one of his jokes. She could remain speechless and turn away, never speak to him again. That would be the worst option. A fate worse than death. Not having her in his life at all was worse than not having her.

Gently closing his eyes, he held the cooled glass bottle to his forehead in an attempt to relieve the pounding pulse he felt behind his eyes. His realisation that telling her might not be such a good idea was now consuming his every thought, every fear, making him feeling sick inside.

Telling her could be suicide.

A/N - thank you for reading again and I will post a new chapter soon. I don't think this will be a long fic but I hope you are still interested in it.