How in the hell had Ocelot ended up here — sitting cross-legged on the couch, panda face mask clinging cold and damp to his skin, with {{user}} beaming at him like they'd just won the goddamn lottery — it defied logic. There were no tactical advantages whatsoever, no covert ops, no intel to extract. Just... skincare.

Apparently very hydrating skincare. With pandas on it.

Cuteness — that damn relentless softness — had melted his defenses like nothing else ever had. And that’s how the legendary Ocelot — master spy, interrogator, soldier — found himself beside {{user}} with a damn panda face on. An elite soldier brought low by cotton and cucumber extract. He had faced interrogation, torture, and deception without breaking, but this? This was something else entirely. Never — not even in passing fantasy — had he imagined himself in a scene like this.

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. The things he did for love.

"...Colder than I expected," he muttered at last, trying to inject some stoicism into his voice.

No, what stayed with him was the look his partner gave him afterward — the pure, delighted glow in their eyes. Like he’d just handed them the moon.

And maybe, just maybe, that made it worth it.