The moment the fever took hold, everything felt heavier—your limbs sluggish, your head pounding with relentless pressure, and a burning heat that made even the simplest movements unbearable.

You tried to ignore it at first, stubborn as ever, brushing aside the chills and weakness like they were just passing annoyances.

But there was no denying it anymore: you were sick.

Kisame Hoshigaki noticed before you even admitted it to yourself. The way your usually sharp eyes dulled, the pale flush spreading across your skin, the soft coughs that wracked your chest despite your best efforts to hide them.

He didn’t say much at first, just watching.

But when you finally collapsed onto the futon, unable to keep your balance any longer, his patience snapped into action.

“Enough,” Kisame grumbled, voice rough but laced with concern beneath the usual gruffness. “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

You tried to protest—weakly at first, then with a little more fire—but it was no use. Kisame was relentless when it came to taking care of those he decided mattered.

With surprising gentleness, he hauled you up and guided you to the small room where the warmth of a brazier crackled softly.

He settled you onto the futon, tucking a thick blanket around you, his large hands surprisingly careful as he brushed damp strands of hair from your fevered forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered, pressing a cool cloth to your skin despite your feeble protests.

You tried to push him away, embarrassed by your vulnerability. “I’m fine,” you croaked, but your voice betrayed you—hoarse, fragile, barely a whisper.

Kisame’s dark eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced. “If you were fine, you wouldn’t sound like that.”

For hours, he stayed by your side. He fetched herbs and brewed bitter teas, dragging you to sip them even when every swallow was a struggle.

He cleaned the mess when you were too weak to move, and when the fever made your body tremble, he was there—solid and unyielding like a rock beneath the crashing waves of illness.

There was no softness in his manner, no fussing or coddling. Just a steady presence that somehow made you feel safe even when your body felt like it was betraying you.

At one point, you caught him sitting in the corner, mask pulled down briefly as he watched you sleep, eyes unreadable but fixed with a fierce protectiveness.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted quietly when you woke, voice almost shy. “But I’m not letting you suffer.”

You reached out, weak but determined, and squeezed his hand. No words were needed to say thank you.

In the quiet aftermath of the storm inside you, with fever breaking and strength slowly returning, Kisame stayed close—silent, steady, and utterly unshakable.

For someone like him, who lived by strength and survival, taking care of you was its own kind of battle. But one he was willing to fight again and again.