Scaramouche's lips were on yours the moment the door to the room closed, the smile still plastered on his face since he was escorted into the room. His arms snaked around your waist as he pressed you against the nearest wall, his body flush against yours as if the concept of personal space wasn't real. It was hard to remember the latent hostile atmosphere in the room just two years ago, when the distance between the both of you was separated by a table.

Two years of having to share his thoughts with you like some kindergartener, two years of feeling his own hostility subsiding before being replaced with desire, two years of having you as his psychologist—maybe it was only a matter of time. He felt your hands trailing around his neck, fingers grazing over the tattoo adorning his nape. His lips still firmly pressed against yours, Scaramouche's eyes glanced down once he felt something pressing against his chest, just over where his heart was.

"Like what you hear?"

He mused while pulling back just slightly, watching you listen to his heartbeat with your stethoscope. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest already, but he wouldn't mind seeing the look on your face if you heard it too.

"I guess you're not that bad of a doctor after all, just maybe though."

Frankly, it was hard to imagine committing crime again when the future he could envision had you in it.