54 Emotional support group

**Date = 22 June**
**Place = San Francisco (Grimms — at Paws and Claws)**

**POV - Enrique**

“Ug … fuck …” My head hurts. “Can we just… order pizza, crack a few beers, and not talk about this shit for one night?” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Please? I need that.”

“Yeah, that sounds like heaven,” Noah agrees.

“I can eat,” Axel nods.

“I’ll get the beer,” Jackson grunts and walks off to the kitchen.

“Uncanny coincidence,” Jesse pipes up cheerfully. “I already ordered downstairs an hour ago. Dingo’s on it.” Sometimes the guy can be useful.

“He makes the best pizzas,” Noah says.

“I thought he made the best donuts?” I mutter.

“Well, he makes the best everything,” Jesse shrugs while running downstairs.

I head to the bathroom, the four cups of coffee finally catching up with me. The routine comes easy — unbutton, unzip, and lay it out, relief. Automatic. Natural. Like breathing.

While emptying my bladder, I wonder what Aria is doing right now. Something else that comes naturally — thinking of her.

I know she’s at the hospital with Leyla. Tomorrow is Leyla’s transplant. Should I call her?

I shake and put away. Zip up, wash my hands, scrub harder than necessary, and stare into the mirror.

I sigh deeply while drying my hands on the towel.

No … can’t. Still, I find myself wandering into Alejandro’s office, phone in hand, as if my body is on autopilot.

I search for her number, and my eyes fall onto the donation records for the Lori Grimm Sanctuary, lying on the huge table. The numbers pull me in like a trap. The lawyer’s transfers are all there — Dad’s money flowing neatly into the trust. Logan’s share. Mel’s. Ilkay’s. Mine.

But Jackson’s donation … it’s different. It’s not from the trust at all. It’s from his personal account.

Something prickles down my spine. It doesn’t add up.

That’s when he walks past, six-pack dangling casually from one hand.

“Hey,” I call, casual as I can fake. He stops at the doorway. “I’m looking at the donation records.”

Jackson grunts. His universal response to any sentence with more than six words.

“You donated your share, too,” I say. “Same as the rest of us.”

Another grunt. Slightly different pitch. The Jackson equivalent of ‘obviously’.

“Except,” I go on, frowning now, “… the account your money came from isn’t the same.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just shifts the beers under his arm like I’d asked him about the weather.

“Why?” My voice drops without me meaning it to. “Why money out of your pocket?”

He shrugs. “‘Cause Daddy didn’t leave me any.” The words land like a sucker punch.

The thing about Jackson is, if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss him. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t brag. He just … doesn’t say anything unless he has to.

And I didn’t notice — because I wasn’t paying attention.

“I just assumed you got the same as the rest of us,” I say slowly. We were all called in privately. After the funeral. The lawyer said Dad wanted it that way. I thought it was strange since we all got the same amount.

But we missed Jackson being quiet about it. But then again … that’s normal for him.

Why would Dad leave me money but not him? I want to ask, but he’s already answering.

“Got my share a long time ago.” He sighs deeply. And I’m starting to realize that I don’t know him at all. That he’s keeping a lot of deep secrets from me … from everyone. What else is he not telling?

“… Huh? What?”

“A house,” Jackson cuts in, voice blunt as a hammer. “Quiet place. Old. Paid off. Maybe haunted.”

I blink. “He left you a house?” The lawyer said Dad had no assets.

Jackson finally meets my eyes. His face is unreadable, but the set of his jaw says everything. “Long ago,” he repeats as if reading my mind. So this house was not in the will then.

“That’s… huh.” Some emotion rises. Not jealousy. Just surprise. And a little annoyance.

“You never told us.”

“Didn’t need to then,” he scuffs.

“And now?”

Jackson looks at the beers in his hands, then at the wall, then back at me.

“Now it’s needed. To keep you safe.”

And that — right there — tells me more than anything else.

“Fuck!” I curse. Loud. Raw. “You got THAT house?”

“Right after Granny’s death.” He shrugs. “Kept it. Renovated it. Renamed it. Moved in.” The words hit harder than I expected. I can’t believe our father gave Alexander’s mansion to Jackson. The one kid Grandpa hated the most. It’s almost poetic.

“You’re staying there?” My voice cracks between disbelief and disgust. I’m a little grossed out. How can he stay at the place where we suffered the most?

“A few years,” he says and holds up the beers. “Can we go have pizza now?” I roll my eyes and snort. Yeah, we can have pizza now, like nothing happened. That’s Jackson for you. Drops a bomb, then asks if you want pepperoni.

Asshole.

And I never fucking knew. Not once. Not a slip, not a clue. Did anyone else?

No — Ilkay and Logan would’ve blurted it out. Axel … maybe. That’s what twists me up. Jackson carries everything locked inside, like a vault full of jagged, dark little treasures he refuses to share.

I knew the place was still in the family. But I thought it belonged to one of my uncles.

Now it makes sense why he never invites us over, why he always shows up at our doors instead of letting us into his. He’s been living in THAT house — our grandfather’s old place. The walls that heard our screams, the floors that drank our blood. Jackson claimed them. Made them his.

The thought unsettles me more than I’ll ever admit out loud. If he’s been living there since we moved out of Uncle John’s … what … seven, eight years now … and never breathed a word — then what else is he hiding?

How many truths has he buried under that cold, broody attitude?

He knew. About our father not being our father. He knew that.

He’s also been shacking up with Daddy Xander all this time. He stayed with him, spoke to him, built some secret life in the shadows while I stood there blind, convinced we were carrying the same weight together.

The fury rises sharp, metallic, like blood on my tongue, but underneath it is something worse — guilt.

Maybe I didn’t look closely enough. Maybe I never wanted to. Maybe it was easier not to know. To be blind.

Because Jackson always held all that and still looked me dead in the eye like nothing was wrong. But I knew it was. I knew but didn’t want to see.

And if I asked, he would have told me … but I never asked. I never pushed.

I realize that maybe I don’t try hard enough to get why he does what he does. Maybe I never did.

And that realization crushes down on me heavier than any chain our grandfather ever locked around our throats. He isn’t just my twin … he’s the boy who always messed up … always took the worst.

I look at his strong back. And my mind suddenly knows what my gut always has … he’s never been a coward. He’s always been a living martyr. A protector.

And maybe it’s time for me to step up. To hold him for once.

When we get back to the cozy sitting room, the boys are lounging across the brown leather couches and beanbags, limbs draped like they own gravity. The smell of pepperoni, garlic, melted cheese, masculinity, and poor decisions hangs in the air.

It smells like home.

The coffee table is a war zone of pizza boxes and half-opened sauce packets. Tako Bells. We’re all addicted.

Jackson tosses everyone a cold can, and I sink into the leather sofa beside Noah. The cushions sag like they’ve absorbed years of confessions and curses. I reach for the nearest box, peel back the greasy lid, and grab a dripping slice. The cheese stretches, molten and gooey, until I bite it free. Heaven.

A low playlist hums from the speakers — old Arctic Monkeys — threading through the crackle of laughter and the hiss of beer cans opening.

“Alright, I’m throwing this out there because it’s been chewing at me for days — do you guys ever think you’re in love and also think you’re just horny?” Noah is curled up on the arm of the couch, with his knees tucked in like he’s afraid of the floor, nursing his beer like he’s not sure he should be drinking it. He looks thoughtful, shirt wrinkled, shoes missing, socks mismatched.

The room cracks with laughter before anyone answers.

Axel, sprawled on a beanbag like a Greek god of sarcasm in a black tank, tips his head back and smirks — “I know a lot about horny, not so much about love.” His voice is smug, but there’s an edge in it. The mood shifts, playful and heavy, pulling secrets out like smoke.

The air is warm, thick with the sour bite of alcohol and the reckless energy of men who had survived too much and loved too little.

Noah continues softly, “You ever just … wonder if it’s love?” His tone is quiet, almost reverent, like he’s trying not to break something fragile.

“Every time I take a dump, bro,” Axel deadpans. “Same level of soul-searching.”

“Charming,” I mutter through a mouthful of pizza.

“You know,” Jesse, dramatic as ever, pushes his glasses up his nose and sighs theatrically. He has the same red hair as his cousin, the same eyes, but a completely different build and face. He’s already half a beer deep, eyes glinting mischievously. “You guys act so impenetrable. But you’re all in love. Every single one of you loves deeply but stupidly. I can smell the hormones and heartbreak — like stale cheese and desperation.”

“That’s the pizza,” Axel snorts.

“No, no … I know love when I smell it.”

“Do we have to talk about that?” The word itself tastes bitter in my mouth. It’s not my favorite subject — not when it drags Aria into my chest, uninvited, where it aches the most. And it reminds me of what I’ve lost. What I can never have.

“That’s why gay men are happier. We’re not afraid of our own emotions,” Jesse says, leaning back. “We know how to share.”

“I’m not afraid,” Axel mutters, but he won’t meet anyone’s eyes. I know better. None of us is built for confession. Maybe that’s the problem.

“Me too,” Jackson states. The room laughs. He’s the most closed off of all.

“Great, so, do we take turns crying,” I chuckle, “Or just shotgun trauma and chug beer?” Maybe he’s right. This could be fun. At least I will have a good laugh at the others trying to strut out feelings they don’t even know how to pronounce.

“If anyone cries, I’m out,” Axel groans. But his eyes flicker, betraying him.

“You got a girl … you start …” He throws me under the bus. Shit. My throat tightens. I can’t even say that word. But they’re watching. Waiting.

“Y’ know,” I start, awkwardly, fumbling for something to say. “I used to think falling for a girl was just … nice.” Great start, I think. “Like warm cocoa. Hallmark crap.” Aria loves those damn movies. My chest aches. I throw some words together, hoping they will sound deep and not dumb. “But now? It’s more like … pulling out a splinter.” I wince at myself. “Hurts like hell, but you feel better after.”

The silence is instant. Then Jesse tilts his beer with a slow smirk. “That’s the softest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I grin lopsidedly. He’s right. It is soft. But I had to say something.

“But I like it,” Jesse chimes, grinning. “Splinter Love. Sounds like a band.”

“Sounds like what I feel every time I see Ava’s name on my phone,” Noah mutters into his beer. He likes his sister’s nurse? Great.

Heads turn. Noah flushes pink.

“You’re in love?” Axel asks, lifting his upper body.

“Told you,” Jesse crows, pointing like a prophet. “Every single one of you is in love with someone.” He looks straight at Axel. “Am I wrong?”

Axel presses his lips together, silent. That alone says everything. Fuck.

Seems I don’t know him either. Am I even on the same planet?

“Who?” I prod.

His jaw clenches. A beat passes. Finally, he mumbles — “Some butterfly girl I met at camp. Long ago.” His voice is flat, final. “But I fucked up.”

His tattoo. The butterfly. Sneaky. My lips twitch, but I don’t out him. That’s his splinter to keep.

Maybe I must get a tattoo … something personal … about Aria. My lips spread more … yes. A little bat. Batnip. My addiction.

“But how do you know?” Noah exhales sharply. “I’m sure Ava’s different. It’s not like I’m trying to feel this way. It just … happened. Every time she talks, it’s like something in my chest unclenches.” His voice cracks, and I feel it. Oh, I know that feeling all too well.

“That’s either love … or a panic attack,” Axel moans quietly.

“Probably love,” Jesse says, raising his can. “But there’s a difference between horny love and real love.”

I wonder if gay men fall the same way as straight men. “I fell in love last night … and I probably will again tomorrow.” I roll my eyes. He’s such an ass chaser. “But it’s just hormones.”

I lean forward, sudden intensity burning in my chest. I look straight into Noah’s eyes. “You should feel it, man. When it hits for real, it’s a car crash. No airbags. You’re either dead or addicted.” I try to help the man out. He’s gonna be my future brother-in-law someday.

I hope.

Jackson, perched silently on the other couch, finally speaks. “Or both.”

We all freeze. He hasn’t spoken in twenty minutes. His beer sits untouched in his hand. His tone is dry, low, like gravel under boots.

Jesse perks up. “So you are in love!” Jesse hums excitedly. “I was sure about the others … but not you.” So it’s true — my emotionally unavailable twin fell on his face. But the question still remains — who?

“It’s complicated,” he grunts, shutting down again.

“Hey, you can talk to us … that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Beer, pizza, and emotional damage,” Noah tries to get him to open up. He doesn’t know Jackson that well.

“It’s just a complicated situation,” my twin repeats. Quieter.

“Like what?” Jesse pushes. “Married? Male? Serial killer?”

“Worse.”

“Translation — poor dude’s in love with someone he can’t tell us about,” Axel explains. I wonder if he knows. Duh, he’s Jackson’s bromance … I’m pretty sure he knows.

Jackson’s expression doesn’t change. He just watches us like he’s three steps ahead, and one bad sentence away from snapping a neck.

“For real?” Noah asks.

“No!” Jackson’s expression doesn’t flicker. He just stares past us all, gaze locked on the wall, or maybe on something only he can see. A memory. A vision.

His voice comes out flat, but heavy. “Because when it’s real … they can use it against you.” He gives me a knowing look.

The room stills. Arctic Monkeys hums on. Grease hangs in the air. The silence is thick.

He lets the moment bleed before he speaks again. “You guys ever think … maybe we’re just too screwed up for this whole love thing?”

Axel’s voice is quieter than usual when he answers — “We are. That’s why when someone looks at you like you’re not, it messes you up more,” Axel answers grimly.

“It clings,” Jackson mutters, eyes still far away.

I swallow hard. “That’s what Aria did. One smile … and suddenly I wanted to be the kind of guy who deserved it.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. Too raw. Too much.

“Holy hell. That was so beautiful. I think I’m ovulating,” Jesse chirps.

I scrunch my nose. “Do you always ovulate when people trauma-dump?”

“Only during full moons and male therapy sessions.”

I laugh, but my gaze flicks back to Jackson. My twin. My shadow. My anchor.

I’m still stuck on the fact that he actually might be in love. “You got a secret girlfriend stashed somewhere?” I ask, locking eyes. “Or boyfriend?” He can’t lie to me.

“No,” he says sharply.

“Too fast,” Jesse rips.

“Way too fast,” Axel sniggers, forcing a grunt from my twin when he finally breaks his stone face.

For one second, just one, he looks almost … human.

There’s a light giggle from the stairs. Too light. Too bright. A pause follows — dull voices. More laughter.

Jackson’s head lifts instantly. Not alarmed. Alert. Like a wolf catching the scent of prey … or blood.

In steps Lee.

He’s small but walks like a man on a mission, hood half-down, hands in his pockets, sharp yellow eyes scanning the room like he owns it. Loose clothes hang off his frame like he’s used to running, but nothing about him is fragile.

Behind him follows D-Boy with his quiet, sniper presence, his expression unreadable. The room shifts a bit. He’s not loud, but something about him always silences things. The kind of man you don’t hear until it’s too late.

The energy shifts — laughter coils tight, banter caught in throats. Like someone pressed pause on the room.

“Wow. Smells like testosterone and pizza grease in here. Who died?” Lee drops an immediate burn. Why don’t I like this guy?

Jinx runs to the coffee table and sniffs. Drool strings from his mouth as his eyes flicker between the food and Alejandro, waiting for the command. Any signal to attack the pizza.

“Just our emotional stability,” Jesse teases.

“And Axel’s last two brain cells,” I toss in, because I’ve had enough brooding for one night. I grab a slice of pizza and pat the couch. Jinx rests his chin on my knee, quivering with restraint, watching, waiting. His nose in the pizza, puppy eyes on Alejandro.

“Hey, I saved three people from a burning laundromat last night,” Axel grumbles through a mouthful of crust. “I’m allowed to be dumb right now.”

“Eat,” I say, but Jinx doesn’t move a muscle. He just drools more, watching the pizza in my hand with fixed eyes.

Alejandro smirks. “Eat.” And the pup gobbles up the slice, wanting more.

“You’re late,” Jackson cuts in, voice low and gravelly, eyes fixed on Lee like the words themselves are a blade.

“Because I had to pick up this granite-faced vigilante from the airport,” Lee fires back, throwing his hands around like he’s auditioning for a play. “Where, by the way, some dumbass lady going through a midlife crisis thought I was a K-pop idol having a breakdown.” I wonder if he knows exactly how ridiculous he sounds. “Took us twenty minutes to convince her I’m not a member of BTS or the Saja Boys.” His gestures are all elbows and drama — he leans into it, milking every syllable.

Alejandro chuckles under his breath, flicking a piece of crust toward Jinx, who snatches it midair with a snap of sharp teeth.

“You’ll probably read it in tomorrow’s news.” The smirk curling Alejandro’s mouth is easy, practiced, but his eyes glint with mischief.

“So how’s your granny?” Noah asks Alejandro, casually, just a normal question.

But for a beat, it throws me. Orphans don’t have grandparents.

But then it hits me — Damion’s grandmother, Lorel, is his now, too. Through all the tangled threads that hold us together. And Haley’s mom, Ernesta, is still alive and kicking somewhere in the mix, too. Family trees around here are more like thornbushes.

“Oh, she lives in Naples now,” Alejandro says smoothly. “Still makes a mean risotto. Still hates the police.”

Who? Lorel? Isn’t she in California?

“Grandmother Grimm? Doesn’t she stay in Carmel-by-the-Sea?” I blurt, incredulous.

“No. Other granny. Mother’s side,” Jesse cuts in without missing a beat. “She was in prison for thirty years. Just got out a little while back.”

I choke. “Prison?”

Alejandro’s face doesn’t twitch. “Framed for a murder she didn’t commit.” That’s it. Full stop. His jaw sets, steel hard. The message is clear — topic closed. He’s just as bad as Jackson in the sharing department.

The silence after is too heavy. I break it, pivoting hard. “So, Lee … did you know your roommate has a thing for someone?”

The room stiffens. My twin’s head turns, slow as an executioner raising an axe. He pins me with a look that flattens me. But I’ve never been scared of him.

Wary maybe. But never afraid.

“I don’t have things,” Jackson growls. Each word is a blade dipped in ice.

Lee’s gaze flicks to him, sharp. Something shifts in his face — just a flicker, like a glitch in armor. The kind of look you’re not supposed to see. The kind of look that says there’s something here. Something dangerous.

But I’m in the mood for pushing. So I push. I’m speaking to Lee but looking at Jackson.

“It’s strange. Jackson doesn’t let anyone in. So when he does —” I smirk at the look on my twin’s face, “— it’s either forever, or fatal.”

Lee plucks the last slice of pizza like it’s a crown jewel and bites into it. He chews slowly, savoring it, lips curling like he’s hiding a laugh.

“Oh, I know all about it,” he says around the crust. He swallows, smirking right at Jackson. “I’m not supposed to tell …”

Jackson freezes.

Lee smirks widely at my rigid brother, deep dimples in his cheeks. “But he met some sugar daddy.” His voice dips to a whisper.

Jesse sputters his beer everywhere. Axel actually sits up.

“It’s new,” Lee continues casually, strolling over to the couch. He flops down next to Jackson with exaggerated dramatics, like it’s his throne. Their legs press.

“A silver fox,” Lee murmurs, dimples flashing as his grin spreads wide, “Who smells like cedar and talks about Virginia Woolf like it’s sports commentary.” He chuckles softly.

“His pronouns are ze and zir. It’s hot.”

The room erupts in laughter. Everyone but Jackson.

His jaw flexes hard, but his eyes flicker — just once. He stares forward, beer still untouched, silent as stone — as if making an effort not to smile.

But his leg doesn’t move away from Lee’s.

“Told you they’d be cool with it,” Lee smirks into my twin’s face. Daring him.

And then — the impossible. My brother blushes.

Color creeps across his cheekbones, faint but real, undeniable.

“Shut up and eat your damn pizza,” he mutters, but his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s shaky, like it’s been cut open.

Lee grins like he won a war, chewing slowly. Jackson doesn’t move away.

They sit there — Jackson and Lee pressed close but pretending not to be. I watch them like something sacred just got unwrapped, something neither of them wants named.

I know something’s being hidden.

I just don’t know what.