13. QUINN
QUINN
“This is a bad idea,” Beck mutters for the umpteenth time, glaring out the truck window. “Kids don’t like me, and I don’t like them. Everybody wins if we just turn around.”
I bite back a smile, keeping my eyes on the road. “You don’t have to like them. You just have to show up. And you can’t really say that—I’ve seen you around Daisy. You get along very well.”
“She’s different. She’s family. I adore her as much as she adores me,” he grumbles.
Aww, that’s so cute.
“Then channel that adoration for today. You’re gonna need it,” I encourage.
He groans, the sound dramatic enough to make me roll my eyes. “Hospitals reek of bleach and sadness. I’m allergic to both.”
He’s grasping at straws now, making up excuses.
That one earns a laugh out of me, but I quickly cover it up with a cough.
Beck is impossible, the way he acts as if every ounce of effort is going to cost him a limb.
But I can’t help watching him from the corner of my eye—the hard set of his jaw, the way his fingers drum restlessly on his thigh.
He’s not just being difficult; there’s something underneath.
He hates anything that requires softness. Kindness. Vulnerability.
And maybe that’s exactly why I’m dragging him with me.
“You’ll survive,” I say, because if I let him hear what I’m really thinking—that I want to see what’s under all that armor—he’ll bolt before we even make it out of the parking lot.
Today I’m bringing Beck to volunteer with me at the children’s hospital.
It’s something I do on a regular basis, so I thought I’d let him tag along.
But similar to the jog with those sweet elderly ladies, he’s being a sourpuss about it.
However, I’m more stubborn than he is, so he has no choice but to be here.
The hospital lobby is bright and sterile, the kind of place most people hurry through. But as soon as we step inside, I’m met with smiles, the nurses waving at me welcomingly.
“Quinn! You’re back,” Head Nurse Robin expresses warmly as we sign in at the nurses’ station.
“You know I couldn’t stay away,” I answer, as I jot down Beck’s name as well.
“I see you’ve brought company today,” she comments, looking behind me.
I turn and catch Beck hovering near the doors, probably considering a quick escape. His shoulders are stiff, eyes scanning the place, looking for the nearest exit instead of welcome.
“Looks about ready to run,” she giggles.
“Tell me about it,” I nod, handing her back the clipboard.
“Well, good luck with that. You know where to go.”
“Of course,” I concur, waving Beck over.
He looks unsure but pushes himself off the wall nonetheless, walking up to me. He looks ridiculous—this broad, confident cowboy who never seems to flinch at anything, suddenly restless.
“What’s wrong?” I murmur, tilting my head so only he hears. “Scared of a few nurses?”
He shoots me a glare, but it’s weak, his discomfort written all over him.
“I’m not scared,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just don’t belong here.”
The words make my chest squeeze, but I cover it with a smirk. “Relax. Nobody’s going to bite. Unless one of the kids asks you to play tea party. Then you’re doomed.”
His scowl deepens, which only makes me bite down on my grin harder.
Watching him—Mr. Aloof and Cocky himself—completely out of his depth might just be the most fun I’ve had in forever.
And to think I almost said no to this when Jace gave me his conditions for his investment. It would have been such a shame.
“Let’s go. The kids are waiting,” I demand, as I grab his arm and tug him toward the first ward.
He reluctantly lets me pull him, but when we get to the doorway, his steps falter, looking like he’d rather face a stampede than step into a room full of children.
But the kids don’t hold back. As soon as they spot us, they are all over me in seconds, giving me hugs and kisses.
“How are you, my loves? I missed you,” I giggle, sharing their love back.
“We missed you too,” they chorus.
“Who is that?” Jack, a cheeky cutie known for his mischief, asks, pointing at Beck as he hugs his Batman blanket tight.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” I encourage.
Jack does not hesitate, walking up to Beck. “Who are you?”
Beck looks startled, but he answers nonetheless. “I’m Beck Morgan, at your service,” he introduces, voice gruff, tipping his hat at Jack.
“I’m Jack. You’re tall!”
Beck blinks, caught off guard. “Uh, y-yeah,” he stutters, like he’s never been accused of height before.
Jack giggles, and suddenly a couple more kids start circling him, resembling curious puppies.
And before I know it, he’s crouched down, all six feet of gruff cowboy folding onto the floor so he’s eye-level with them.
He lets Wendy, a little girl in a pink bandana, try on his hat, the brim sliding down so far it nearly swallows her whole.
The room erupts with laughter, and Beck actually laughs too.
Not the sharp, cocky chuckle he usually throws my way, but something low and warm.
I watch him interact with them, a foreign feeling in my chest. I’ve never seen him like this.
His voice is gentle as he asks the kids about their favorite superheroes, his big hands carefully adjusting IV lines out of the way so they don’t tangle.
He even lets one boy draw a crooked mustache on his face with a washable marker, pretending to look fierce until they all collapse into giggles again.
And all I can think is, this is him. This is the part he hides. The part he doesn’t want anyone to see.
I should be amused. Instead, I’m undone.
I don’t even notice when the noise in the room shifts, when the cartoons on the TV fade into the background and all I can hear is him. His laugh, his low rumble of a voice as he listens—really listens—to Wendy talk about how her doll “fights monsters at night.”
He nods solemnly, like she’s entrusted him with state secrets, and then promises to keep her doll safe when she naps.
And something in my chest twists.
Because this isn’t the Beck I know. Not the cocky one who smirks every time he gets under my skin, or the stubborn brute who complains his way through a sunrise run. This is someone else. Someone gentler. Someone I never thought existed under all that swagger and sharpness.
He shouldn’t look so natural here. He shouldn’t know exactly how to tuck his frame small enough so he doesn’t crowd them, how to soften that gravel in his voice so it comes out velvety.
But he does. And I can’t stop staring.
I tell myself it’s admiration. That I’m just impressed, surprised even, to see this side of him. But there’s a flicker of something deeper, warmer, crawling up my throat that I refuse to name.
Because if I do, it’ll stick. And I’m not ready for that.
Time passes by in a flash, so that when the nurse pokes her head in to tell us visiting hours are nearly over, groans ripple through the room.
“Already?” Jack, who seems to have gotten attached to Beck, complains, tugging on his arm like he can anchor him there by sheer will.
Wendy, who’s been wearing his hat the whole time, climbs onto his lap without asking, clinging to his shirt. “Don’t go yet,” she pleads, her voice small but stubborn.
Beck shifts, clearly uncomfortable, and for a second I think he’ll brush it off with one of his gruff quips. But he doesn’t. He sits there, still as stone, and then, carefully, awkwardly, he pats her back.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his tone low, almost hesitant, because he isn’t used to making promises he might actually want to keep.
The kids latch onto the words instantly, chorusing their goodbyes, some asking when, others already planning what games they’ll play next time. And Beck—God help me—he tries to keep his face blank, but I see it. That flicker. That ache.
Wendy hands back his hat, he ruffles Jack’s hair, who mutters something about him being “no fun at all,” but it’s obvious from the smile on his face he’s happy. They’re glowing just from being around him.
When we finally step into the hallway, the echo of their voices follows us out.
I sneak a glance at him. His jaw is set, eyes forward, determined not to let anything show. But I saw it. The way they looked at him. The way he let them.
And it leaves me unsteady. I wasn’t ready to see this side of him, and now that I have, I don’t know how to look away.
He doesn’t say anything, just shoves his hands into his pockets and walks beside me, head down. His shoulders aren’t tense the way they usually are, though. They are loose—maybe for once he isn’t carrying the weight of the world, or maybe he just set it down for a little while in that playroom.
He glances at me once, quick and unreadable, before looking away. And it hits me: he doesn’t want me to mention it. He doesn’t want me to say I saw it, that I noticed.
But I did, and I can’t unsee it now.
I can’t stand the silence stretching between us, so when we step out into the sun, I nudge him with my elbow. “Didn’t know you had a soft side,” I say, careful to keep my voice playful, not prying.
He shoots me a look—half warning, half wounded pride. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, come on,” I press, grinning just to cover how my chest is still a mess from what I saw in there. “Big, scary Beck, making kids laugh. You’re practically a teddy bear.”
His scowl deepens, but there’s the faintest twitch at his mouth—he’s fighting a smile. “Say that again, and I’m leaving you here.”
I laugh, and for a fleeting moment, it feels easy between us. Light. We’ve stumbled into some strange middle ground where we aren’t at each other’s throats.
“Lunch?” I suggest, mostly because I want to stretch this mood out a little longer.
“Please. I’m famished.”
The diner I choose is close enough, a blend between formal dining and family style. For a second, I think maybe it’ll be fine. That we’ll sit, eat, maybe even laugh again.
But then I notice it. The shift.
At first, I tell myself I’m imagining it. The way the hostess’s smile falters when she sees Beck. The little pause before she picks up two menus.
“This way,” she says, but her voice is thin, brittle. She’s already decided we don’t belong here.
I catch Beck’s jaw tick from the corner of my eye. He notices too.
The dining room is quiet, polished silverware gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. But the hush that falls when we’re led in feels different. Heavy. Intentional.
A woman at the nearest table lowers her wine glass, her gaze snagging on Beck like a stain she can’t scrub out. Her husband leans in, muttering something. She nods, lips pressed thin.
By the time we sit down, my pulse is already unsteady.
The waitress arrives, stiff as a board, barely looking at him. She takes my order with practiced politeness, but when Beck opens his mouth, she interrupts. “We might not have that today.” No apology or warmth. Just dismissal.
He stares at her, and for a second I think he’s going to say something. But he shuts his mouth, and that almost hurts worse—watching him swallow it, the muscle in his cheek flexing as he forces the words back down.
I want to tell her off, but my tongue feels thick as the whispers continue to grow.
Then the manager approaches, all fake charm and condescension. “I’m so sorry,” he says, but his eyes never touch mine. They’re fixed on Beck. “It seems there’s been a mistake. We’re actually full right now.”
I glance around. Empty tables dot the room like little islands of silence.
“Full, huh?” Beck’s voice drops low, dangerous. It’s not loud, but the weight of it turns my blood cold.
“Yes,” the manager replies too quickly, shifting on his feet.
My chest aches, humiliation slicing me open. They don’t even care that the lie is obvious. They just want us gone. Want him gone.
Beck leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing, and I can feel the storm gathering in him. His temper is coiling, sharp and fast, ready to cut. And maybe part of me wants him to unleash it, to tear their smug politeness to shreds.
But another part, louder, more desperate, just wants out. Away from the eyes, the whispers, the shame that’s sinking claws into my skin.
I grab his arm under the table, squeezing hard. “Beck,” I hiss, low enough only he can hear. “It’s not worth it.”
He turns to me, fury still burning in his gaze, but something in my face must get through. Because after a tense beat, he exhales, long and sharp.
Without a word, he stands. His chair scrapes back with a violent screech that makes the nearest table flinch.
I get up fast, my own cheeks burning, and follow him out. And when the door shuts behind us, I can finally breathe again—only now, the air tastes ashy.
Outside, Beck is vibrating with fury, every muscle strung tight. His fists flex and curl at his sides, his jaw hard enough to crack. He looks ready to go to war, and for a moment I’m terrified he actually might.
But I can’t stop watching him. The same man who just knelt on a sticky hospital floor to let a sick little boy play with his tattoos, who laughed when a girl painted his face with clumsy butterfly swirls—that man is standing here now, burning under the weight of strangers’ judgment.
The storm rises in me so fast it steals my breath.
I’m furious because they don’t see him. They don’t know him. They just see the name, the reputation, the stories, and decide he’s not worth the air he breathes. And I’m bitter, because I did see him, and it’s not fair that nobody else bothers to look deeper.
And something else, sharper, scarier. The way it hurts to see him wounded, even if he’ll never admit it.
I want to reach for him, to soothe the raw edges.
To tell him I know the truth of who he is, even if no one else does.
But his shoulders are bristling, his whole body a barricade, and I don’t know how to touch him without being scorched.
So I swallow it all down, pressing my nails into my palms until the sting steadies me.
And in the quiet that follows, the thought slips out of me like a confession I never meant to make: I don’t know which Beck is real. The gruff, hated cowboy everyone despises, or the man the kids adored, the man who made me laugh this morning.
All I know is that both of them matter to me more than I ever wanted to admit.