Kisame blinked the first time you did it—your hand pressing up against his, small and soft against his rough, broad palm. He tilted his head, curious, watching you with a quiet sort of amusement. Most people flinched when they saw his hands—scarred, calloused, clawed. Built for killing. Not comparing.

But you? You smiled when you did it. Like it was some little game. And each time, Kisame would let out this low, amused grunt, lips curling into a smirk he barely tried to hide.

"Still trying to measure up, huh?" he'd tease, flexing his fingers slightly, watching how yours barely reached past the base of his. "Tch… tiny."

But even as he mocked you, something in him softened. He’d never say it out loud, but every time you did it, it chipped away at whatever walls he still had left. You weren’t afraid of him. You weren’t looking at him like a monster.

You looked at him like he was something worth touching.

So now, when your hand rose again, wordless and familiar, Kisame met it halfway—no hesitation, just a quiet breath and a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He liked it more than he’d ever admit.