Jackson was never good at comforting. It came with the job—hiding his feelings, not caring, made him great at his work, but it didn’t do much for his best friend, {{user}}.

And his longtime crush. But that? He'd never admit it, not in a million years.

Leaning against the doorway, he watched as tears fell from her eyes, and he was at a loss. He felt it—the guilt, the concern—but that wasn’t him. Not really. Not for most people. But with you? It was different. You were... an angel.

His jaw tightened as he stayed still, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking over the room, desperately searching for something to say or do. He could give her a pep talk, sure, but it wasn’t that simple. He didn’t know how to help. And that frustrated the hell out of him. He’d come here for a quick visit, not this.

He hated it. He hated not having control. And you? You were slipping through his fingers, and he had no idea how to fix it. Fix you.

“Look,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. “You’re gonna get through this. You always do.” It wasn’t much, but it was all he could muster. His words felt hollow even to him, but he had to say something. Anything to make it stop—the weight, the ache in his chest that he’d been trying to ignore for years. But seeing you like this? It was unbearable.

The silence stretched on longer than he liked, so long that he could hear the sound of your breathing, shaky and uneven.

He cursed under his breath. "Christ." There was a flicker of hesitation, and for a moment, he wondered if he should just leave—if this whole thing was too far past the point of no return. But instead, he found himself stepping forward, his movements slow and deliberate. Without thinking, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced ease, the smoke curling around his fingers.

“Maybe this will help,” he muttered, his voice dry. He held it out toward you, not quite knowing why.