Taemin just blinked at him, once again the picture of innocence. At least Ella had the grace to bite her lip and look apologetic.

"You didn't kill that girl, Con," she said. She frowned, wrinkling her nose. "I didn't like that that's what they were trying to get at with those questions."

"How do you know that?" he snapped, ignoring the burst of relief just behind his sternum. It didn't do much to silence the anxiety clawing along his nerves. "You don't know me. Either of you. Why would you—"

"I saw your face." Ella crossed her arms. "I saw your face when you were trying to save her. When you knew that you couldn't. That's not what murderers look like."

"And you have lots of experience with that?" Con sliced his hand through the air between them. "It's—that's not the point."

Ella gave him a put-upon expression, like he was being unreasonable. "Then what is?"

"You two lied to the police. About what could possibly be a murder. You lied to them and made me lie to them."

"Well, we could have just kept quiet and watched you flounder around trying to explain those scratches," Taemin said, voice languid though his eyes were narrowed dangerously. "Would you prefer giving them the truth about that?"

Con froze, absolutely convinced that Taemin somehow knew. That he could see everything wrong in Con's head—every twisted, black, insane thing inside of him. All of his bad memories and regrets. All of his sins.

A familiar prickling sensation was beginning to rise beneath his skin. He curled his fingers into fists, digging his nails into his palms. When that proved insufficient, he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. 

"I'm gonna get some ice for your knee," Ella said, preventing him from getting sucked too far into his own head. "You need to lay down. You're still shivering, probably from some leftover shock."

With that, she slid past him, the back of her hand brushing his. The smell of her shampoo—some sweet, flowery scent—distracted him and he turned, watching her go out the door.

"You really should lay down."

Con whirled to find Taemin had somehow gotten to his feet and teleported across the room to stand right behind him. That was the only explanation for how quickly and quietly he'd moved. Con took a half-step back, just to thump into the wall.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Taemin lifted a hand, tracing the cut on Con's face. "Will you tell me what really happened?" he asked, voice soft but sincere. 

"I don't think you'll believe me," he found himself saying, entranced by Taemin's eyes. Shadows shifted in the inky irises, making it impossible to look away.

Taemin drew a little nearer. "Try me."

Licking his lips nervously, Con tried to brush past Taemin. He couldn't think with him that close. He didn't like the trapped feeling settling over him. Fingers closed around his wrist, dragging him back, and Con's temper exploded. He was scared and tired, nervous and still shaky from what had happened. 

Con spun, grabbing the front of Taemin's sweater and slamming him against the wall. A startled huff escaped him, but Taemin didn't fight back. Everything from the slight smile on his parted lips to the set of his shoulders spoke of calm. Of control.

Meanwhile, Con was spiraling.

His knuckles turned white, tremors running up his arms. Slowly, Taemin lifted his hands, once again wrapping his fingers around Con's wrists. Con pulled him forward and slammed him back into the wall again, hard enough to make a nearby painting rattle.

"Why won't you just leave me alone?" Con snarled.

Taemin tilted his head, eyes turning a bright reddish-gold. That prickling feeling beneath Con's skin increased and he pressed his fists harder into Taemin's chest, refusing to give into that delusion again. 

It had already caused him enough problems.

He blinked and his eyes were black again. "Because I don't want to."

Con's breath rasped as he stared at Taemin. He had never met someone so infuriating. Taemin's fingers once more traced the cut on his cheek. In response, Con's hands loosened their death-grip.

"You're too much of what I like, Constantine," Taemin whispered. "How could I leave you alone?"

"Don't call me that." 

A laugh bubbled up and Taemin tipped his head back, perfectly ordinary teeth flashing. "But I like it." His fingers slipped from Con's cheek to his mouth. "I like you."

Con had never known such a professional flirt. He tried to pull back, his brain a riot of denial and longing, but Taemin yanked him forward. Taemin's mouth was on his before Con could do anything about it.

In that same moment, he realized he didn't want to do anything about it.

Last night had been plagued with fantasies of this. How his lips would feel. How he would taste. 

Con pressed Taemin back against the wall, burying one hand in his silver hair. It was so soft it felt like fur beneath Con's fingers. His lips parted, Taemin's eager mouth responding perfectly to every move of his.

It had been such a long time since he'd been kissed like this.

Taemin's hands wandered down to the hem of Con's shirt. It was up and over his head in one smooth motion, Taemin's cool fingers skating over his skin. He followed the outlines of muscles and hesitated over scars, making shudders of pleasure tremble through Con.

He put his hands on Con's hips, pushing him backwards. Con was in no position to consider anything, his mind a useless jumble that only really cared about the way Taemin's tongue teased him. The way his teeth nipped at the sensitive skin of Con's lower lip.

The edge of the bed came up and tripped him. Con fell, Taemin on top of him. The long, lean lines of his body pressed against every inch of Con. He smoothed his free hand up Taemin's back, the other still buried in his hair.

Taemin arched like a cat, a sound Con would only call a purr buzzing against his lips.

When Taemin broke the kiss, Con snarled in protest, trying to pull him back down. But he sat up and gently detached Con's fingers from his hair. His chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes sparking and a delicious blush spreading over his cheekbones.

Con sagged back against the mattress, his rational brain starting to scream in horror. Before he could decide if he wanted to knock Taemin over, he rolled off of Con and stood. He ran both hands through his thoroughly ruffled hair.

He backed toward the door, eyes still drinking Con in. "Maybe if you're good, I'll come and play nurse," he said, voice rough and so sexy Con wanted to drag him back to the bed.

But the throbbing in his knee and wrist was starting to become apparent. So he swallowed and pushed himself farther up the bed. "Who says I'll let you in?"

Taemin just smiled and left.

Like his absence had snapped some kind of tether, emotion flooded Con's body. He collapsed back into the pillows, angry, confused and several kinds of frustrated. Closing his eyes, he berated himself for being an idiot. A complete sucker for a pretty face.

For being unfaithful.

Pain raced through him, so sharp his breath caught and he curled up against the onslaught. Jenna had been dead for a year, it was true, but Con had been so completely in love with her that being with anyone else had seemed ridiculous.

Insane.

So what the hell was so different about Taemin? What about him was so magnetic Con couldn't help but be pulled in, no matter how furious he was after the fact?

He rubbed at his eyes, trying desperately not to get pulled into memories of his wife. That path had one destination. Instinct told Con allowing himself to spiral anymore out of control than he already had would be a terrible, terrible idea. Especially in the wake of the officers' questions.

Just as it was becoming a losing battle, the sound of the lock disengaging pricked at his ears. Con sat bolt upright, teeth bared, hands scrambling uselessly to find something he could throw.

His mind screeched to a disorganized halt when he realized it was Ella slipping into the room, not her brother. In her arms were extra towels and a few bags of ice. She smiled at him, kicking the door shut behind her.

That smile slipped as she raked a discerning gaze over him. Then she shook her head, muttering under her breath in Korean. An embarrassed flush burned Con's cheeks, but he didn't say anything.

What was there to say? Besides, he didn't owe anyone any explanations.

Ella put the stuff she had down and bent to pick up Con's shirt. She threw it to him and Con once more scrambled to put it on.

"Here," she said, moving closer to the bed. "Give me some of those pillows and we can elevate your leg. Then I'll put the ice on and get out of your hair."

"You don't—"

"Pillows," she said, raising her eyebrows.

Con quailed slightly and did as she asked, watching in silence as she used the pillows to prop up his leg. She tucked the ice around his knee before handing him the second bag.

"For your wrist," she said, turning toward the door.

"Ella," Con called, suddenly unable to hold his silence.

She turned, cocking her head.

He swallowed against a dry throat. "Thanks for...for everything. You really—" He scoffed. "You really didn't need to do anything that you did. You probably shouldn't have. If they find out, we're all in trouble."

Ella walked back to the bed, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. She leaned down so her face was just inches away from his. His heart—which had barely recovered from Taemin's assault—began to trip, rapping out a tempo he thought might kill him.

Her eyes were just as beautiful as her brother's. Maybe even more, being a shade lighter and just a bit less mysterious.

"You aren't responsible for that girl's death." She smiled, a curl of her hair brushing his temple. "And I can't help but feel that I might like you, Con. I didn't mean to lie. It just came out because I didn't like what that woman was insinuating."

His brain was slowly short-circuiting. "Well, I mean, either way..." He sighed, closing his eyes. "Thanks. I guess."

She just laughed. Con opened his eyes just as she brushed a kiss against his cheek.

"I'll see you later, Con," she whispered. "Feel better. Heal fast."

Then she left, placing his key on top of the dresser before she closed the door.

Con stared after her, trying to sort through all of his interactions with the Parks. As far as he could tell, he'd been mostly weird, neurotic and an asshole.

What in holy hell had he done to make either of them like him?

His eyes dragged closed by a vicious exhaustion, Con realized that was hardly the most problematic thing facing him right now.