Yes, Maybe, No

1

He is slumped against the doorframe, one hand underneath his jacket. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair stuck against his skin which has a unhealthy pale appearance. He looks as if he is crumbling underneath his own weight.

Cassian tries to smile but it looks forced and pained. "Did I wake you?"

               "Uhm, yes. It's the middle of the night," You frown, whispering, "You look like shit."

               "I feel like shit. Can I come in?"

Even though he looks like hell, you hesitate. Maybe it is selfish but the last thing you feel like dealing with currently is your ex-boyfriend showing up in your new life, bringing in who knows what sort of stuff with him. You had spent so long trying to forget him after things went to shit and now to find him right outside your apartment...

Cassian moves his hand out of his jacket and you can see his fingers are smeared with blood. It dawns on you only then that he is injured. The sight of the blood kicks you into gear from years of training.

               "Hurry up before someone sees you," The words are gruff and unpleasant but Cassian doesn't seem to notice nor care because he lurches forward on the final bit of energy he has and is over the threshold.

Cassian slumps forward and you catch him quickly before he can strike the floor. The door seals behind him as your blaster drops to the floor when you take on his weight. He is familiar yet different; the weight of him sturdier than in the past, his frame harder, more stubble on his chin than you've seen before.

You manage to get Cassian successfully to the living room before his legs give out. He is splayed on the couch at an awkward angle which you have no time to adjust because you've scurried off to find your med kit.

After you told Cassian that the relationship didn't work, that the chaos burning inside him without an outlet proved to be too exhausting for you, your mind had drifted to him often in the weeks that followed. You wondered what his life was like without you around, wondered if he was happier without you and if he regretted how things went.

It took a long time to get over him. And now here he was, bleeding all over your cramped and small living room in the middle of the night with no explanation – including how he knew that you lived here.

Returning to Cassian, you motion to the jacket that he still has on. "Come on, I can't see your injury with the jacket."

Cassian has managed to right himself in the short time you ducked out of the room. He is slumped on the couch, his head rolled back, breathing labored.

Still, he shifts enough to shrug out of his jacket which you take gingerly, making a mental note at how it has seen better days. His black shirt is wet on one side, stuck against his skin. You sit next to him, a twinge of anxiety hitting your chest. Cassian's eyes are closed, and the sight of this brings back a storm of old memories, none of which you want to linger on.

               "Do I even want to know what injured you?" Your voice wavers a little, betraying your nerves. Cassian would normally pick up on such a thing if he weren't in his current state.

               "No," is all he mumbles.

Tentatively, you reach for his shirt, carefully peeling it upwards to expose the wound. It's a gash, sticky with oozing blood, dark red smeared all over his abdomen. It isn't the sight of the wound that sends your stomach churning; you work at the local clinic and have seen similar injuries more times than you can count. It is the fact it is on Cassian that makes anxiety bloom in your chest.