The mission had been ugly from start to finish. Kisame had come back with his usual wicked grin, but this time there was no mistaking the mess clinging to him—mud, grime, and the unmistakable splatter of a fight gone bad.

It coated him from head to toe, dark streaks dripping down the sharp edges of his shark-like features.

What he found amusing, though, wasn’t the state he was in. It was you.

Somehow, in the chaos, you’d ended up just as filthy as he was. There was dried dirt in your hair, smudges across your face, and your clothes were a patchwork of stains that matched his.

You didn’t look nearly as amused as he did, your glare sharp and irritated while he leaned his massive frame against the doorway, chuckling low in his throat.

“You look worse than me,” he remarked, tone dripping with amusement.

You didn’t answer, only brushing past him toward the edge of the room. Kisame trailed behind, his large hand swiping at the back of your shoulder, leaving yet another smear just to see you bristle.

When he headed straight for the bathhouse, he assumed you’d follow.

But you stopped short at the entrance, arms crossed, a stubborn tilt to your chin. Kisame raised a brow, water already steaming behind him as he stepped inside.

“You’re joking,” he said, that shark grin widening. “You’re just as disgusting as me. Get in.”

You shook your head, taking a deliberate step back, eyes narrowing in silent refusal. Kisame laughed—really laughed this time—his deep voice echoing off the tiled walls.

“You think you’re walking around like that? Nah,” he said, striding toward you with the kind of predatory ease that reminded you exactly why people feared him.

You barely had a moment to retreat before his wet, grimy arms hooked around you.

The heat of him and the smell of damp earth hit all at once as he hauled you up against his chest. You squirmed, planting your hands against him in protest, but all it did was smear more mess between you.

Kisame’s grin was almost boyish now, the kind of amusement that came from sheer stubbornness.

Without ceremony, he carried you toward the steaming water. “You’re getting in whether you like it or not,” he said, voice laced with mock warning.

And with that, you were lowered—none too gently—into the bath, the hot water immediately cutting through the grime on your skin. Kisame stepped in after you, settling in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You shot him a withering look, but he only smirked, water rippling around him as he leaned back. “There,” he said lazily, “now we both don’t stink.”