I was fading fast, that much was obvious; I was just waiting to see an obligatory oasis with a refreshing spring to tease me in my hour of need – that's what you see when you're popping your clogs, right?

What I didn’t expect to see was a full embodiment of Tudor North running towards me in slow motion, white as a ghost, muscles rippling against a tight white tee and a look of concerned panic all across his face, with the theme tune from Baywatch accompanying his every step.

What is it with him? I am addicted. I, Natasha Munro, am a Tudaholic. I constantly think of him, being with him, him wanting me. No matter what he does to me, I cave like a junkie to a drug. Against Tudor I have no will power, and even now, at my weakest, it’s the image of him coming to my damsel-in-distress call to the theme of a nineties TV show that I envision. I am royally f**ked up. A glutton for punishment. Then again, if I’m going to pass through the transcendental plane, his face and fine physique are a comforting sight with which to send me on my way.

Mentally kicking my own arse, you know, as my leg wouldn’t move in reality, I groaned and shut my eyes. When I opened them again, my mirage was before me, so real that I wanted to stretch out my hand to touch it, to eradicate the teasing vision.

Like a scene in a dramatic war film, the ambient sounds muted and everything occurred at a snail’s pace, a slow motion Spielberg-esque director’s cut of the end of my life. In a dramatic twist, I was suddenly scooped up from my impending carpeted doom by a pair of hulking arms and placed on my soft, warm bed, my eyes trying to fight the pull of blissful sleep.

I felt wetness on my lips, water running down my sandpapered throat, soothing it like a balm. A pillar of incredible strength held my head as the liquid began to take effect and my vision began to snap back into focus. My surroundings began to stitch themselves back together.

“Tash? Speak to me. Are you okay?” the voice urged.

My still-unresponsive body was guided gently back against a propped-up pillow, and my knight in shining armour moved into the spotlight above me. I knew he was real before I even opened my eyes. I could smell him, and even in my current state I couldn’t help but want the damn man!

“Tudor? Are you really here? If you are, why are you here?” I whispered. After last night I thought I would never see him again.

He sat on the side of the bed next to me, the mattress dipping low due to his huge frame. I rolled my head in his direction and pulled a small, appreciative smile. Despite what we had been through lately, I was bloody glad to see him.

He leaned over my body, placing his arms on either side of my chest; he took his left hand and began softly stroking my hair. I naturally leaned into his touch. He was searching my eyes, checking me over, his brow heavily creased in worry.

"Tate called. I only got his message thirty minutes ago. Tink has been trying to call you non-stop and you haven’t answered all day. He was frantic, and seeing as though you only really know me here in Calgary – at least only I know where you live – he asked if I could come by and check on you.”

He moved in closer and shook his head. “I don’t think he was too happy about it, but he claimed I was his only option. Bee also mentioned that you didn’t turn up for school today.”

Oh My God! School!

I tried to sit up but only managed a painful little flop. Tudor placed a hand on my arm. “Don't worry, Tink called your school explaining you were ill. He tried to catch you there, and made your excuses when they mentioned you didn't show. He assumed you were under the weather and told me where you kept the spare key, and here I am…”

He placed his palm over my forehead to check my temperature, my neck for swollen glands and finally the pulse on my wrist which kicked into a galloping sprint as his rough and calloused hands roamed over my too-hot skin.

“I almost had a heart attack when I came in and saw you passed out on the floor. I think I’ve just aged thirty years. Jesus, how long were you down there?” He leaned in and brushed his lips against my forehead, swallowing hard. “To think I was at home this whole time unaware, while you were here like that.”

He bent forward, putting his hands on his head, elbows on knees. "You were in trouble and no-one was here to help. You must have been so scared."

I couldn’t help it, I let out a small giggle. Tudor whipped his head back, eyes wide – obviously not the response he was expecting.

“I thought you were a mirage. I knew I was in a bad way, I kind of expected the worst after waiting so long on the floor, and when I saw you I thought I was hallucinating.”

He still didn’t budge. No Tudor-smirk.

“Don’t feel bad, Tude, this just happens sometimes. I don’t know how long I’ve been on the floor; I’ve been… a little out of it. I can say, though, that despite everything that has happened between us, I've never been so glad to see your ugly mug!" I tried to crack a smile.

He raised his head, staring straight forward, his voice tinged with sadness. “Tink said you have a condition, one that’s personal. What’s wrong with you, Tash? He wouldn’t tell me any more than that, said it was up to you. But I'm freakin’ terrified, what I‘ve just walked into was like a f**king horror film.”

He tilted his head to his right, assessing me, clearly disturbed by my little episode.

I shrugged. “I just have some hormone problems, an imbalance; a syndrome. I was really poorly when I was younger and that had already left me very weak and physically worn down, and a couple of years later, this bloody hormone condition developed too. The specialists don't think the two are related – it seems I'm just a magnet for bloody health problems! If I get too stressed or run down it can send my capricious hormones all crazy and I get real tired and achy, fever-like symptoms,” I paused to bite my lip – I hated talking about this. “I have medicine, in the bathroom cabinet but I couldn’t get to it.”