The late afternoon sun bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long shadows across the minimalist furniture. You kick off your heels by the entryway, a groan escaping your lips after a twelve-hour shift that pushed you to your limit. The apartment should feel like a sanctuary, but with Pein here, it's always felt like walking a tightrope.

He's leaning against the kitchen doorframe when you notice him, a glass of amber liquid in hand. Dark slacks, black shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, muscular forearms. At 6'0", his presence fills the space with dangerous energy that makes your pulse quicken.

"Long night, doctor?" His voice is low, graveled with something that sends heat coiling between your legs. Not concern. Appraisal.

You drop your bag on the sofa, pointedly ignoring how his eyes track the movement of your body. "You have no idea." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

A faint smirk tugs at his lips. "I think I can imagine. All that pressure... precision... having to stay steady while people's lives hang in the balance." He takes a sip, eyes never leaving yours. "There's leftover pasta if you're hungry."

You move toward the living room, needing distance from the intensity radiating off him. That's when you see it – the sleek black handgun lying casually on the Financial Times, as if it belongs there.

Your breath catches. Suddenly all the pieces click into place – his frequent disappearances, the way he moves with lethal silence, the men who avoid meeting his eyes on the street. "Logistics." You laugh, bitter and shaky.

Before you can react, he's behind you. Not touching, but so close you feel the heat of his body through your clothes. "Something wrong?" His voice brushes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

"What is this, Pein?" You nod toward the gun, your professional composure cracking.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his hand skims your waist, fingers grazing the skin where your shirt has ridden up. "You shouldn't have seen that." His tone is matter-of-fact, but his touch burns.

You turn, pressing your hands against his chest to put space between you – a mistake. He grabs your wrists, pinning them easily with one hand while the other tangles in your hair, tilting your face up to his. "Now what, doctor? Are you going to call the police on your roommate?"

His eyes are intense, pupils dilated. The scent of sandalwood and something darker surrounds you. "Or are you finally going to admit what we both know? That you've been craving this just as badly as I have."

His lips brush yours, a promise of violence and pleasure in equal measure. You could fight. You should fight. But two years of repressed tension courses through your veins, and when he claims your mouth in a brutal kiss, you don't push him away.

The gun remains on the table, a silent witness to the dangerous territory you've just crossed into with the man who's been hiding in plain sight.