19. QUINN
QUINN
Of all the things I’ve done to redeem Beck’s reputation, what we are doing today will be the make-or-break point.
He doesn’t know it yet, but today is his first real test. The town is going to see him—not the scandal, not the whispers, not the shadow of his last name, but him.
The man who shows up, who works hard, who’s trying.
And I need them to see what I see, because if they don’t…
I don’t know how much more fight he has left in him.
I tug on a pair of comfortable jeans and a soft shirt, something practical since it will be a very active day. My hair refuses to cooperate, so I put it into a messy bun, but it doesn’t matter. No one’s coming to look at me anyway.
I glance out the window and catch sight of a truck pulling up from the farm, the bed stacked with boxes of canned goods and crates of vegetables.
The Morgans are already loading up for the day, the whole family moving in unison.
And there he is, front and center, carrying a sack of flour over one shoulder like it weighs nothing.
He laughs at something Jace says, head tipped back, and for just a second I forget to breathe.
This is the version of Beck I want the world to see. The one who doesn’t need defending or a carefully crafted plan. Just himself, raw and real.
I press my palms to the windowsill, whispering a silent prayer to whoever’s listening: Please let today go right. Let them see him the way I do.
And maybe, just maybe, let me stop being so scared of how much I care about whether he makes it through this.
Leaving the cocoon of my room, I wander downstairs to help with setting up before we leave. Today we will be doing a food drive. It’s the ultimate plan to reach out to most of the community, especially the less privileged, and tug at a few hearts.
By the time we pull up to the soup kitchen, the parking lot is already buzzing with chatter from the volunteers. In preparation for this, I called out to all the reinforcements that I could, and they’ve shown up for me.
The Morgans don’t arrive quietly.
Hank climbs out of the truck first, steady and stoic, his face unreadable but his presence commanding as always.
Zane follows right after with Ava at his side, one arm slung casually around her shoulders, grinning at some joke only she seems to find funny.
They are getting married in a few days but still found time for this amidst all the wedding chaos, and it’s truly touching.
Then there’s Jace, with Daisy on his lap as he wheels himself toward the entrance. She’s clutching a little stuffed pony in one hand, her other hand gripping her daddy’s arm like it’s the only anchor she’ll ever need.
Ella swings her car door shut with her hip and immediately tosses a teasing jab at her brothers, earning a round of chuckles. She’s sharp, this one, with Beck’s same stubbornness, only with a quicker tongue.
And then there’s the man of the hour, my supposed fiancé, who shoulders two boxes at once and looks like he could carry the whole damn truck if someone asked him to. He catches me watching and smirks—he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Inside, the soup kitchen volunteers greet us warmly, grateful hands taking donations as people shuffle inside. The energy is lighter than I expected; laughter bounces off the scuffed tile floors. Now this is what community is supposed to be about.
And then I spot them—two older ladies from the jogging club, the ones who surprised me with their quiet loyalty when Beck thought no one had his back.
They’re bustling around with aprons tied tight, already arranging bread baskets, and when they spot me, one of them waves enthusiastically, calling, “We saved you a spot, sugar!”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. For the first time, I know I’m not fighting this uphill battle alone.
Getting to work, I find myself at the donation table with Ella, who works with a kind of brisk efficiency.
“Keep up, future sister-in-law,” she teases under her breath, her smirk sharp but not unkind.
We were honest with the Morgans about our fake engagement. We saw no point in lying to them, and they are all in on supporting us.
Across the room, Zane heckles at Beck. “Hey, pretty boy! Careful with those cans—you might chip a nail!”
Beck doesn’t even look up from where he’s hauling a crate toward the pantry, his voice easy. “You just worry about not pulling something bending over, old man.”
Zane barks a laugh, Ava elbowing him in the ribs with a fond, long-suffering shake of her head. She’s glowing, balancing a plate of cookies on her protruding belly.
Jace sets Daisy on a chair near the bread baskets and hands her a plastic butter knife. “Your job, sweetheart, is to spread butter nice and even, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy!” she chirps, tongue poking out in concentration as she works. Every so often she glances up at me, checking to see if she’s doing it right. I make sure to nod encouragement every time, which earns me her delighted little grin.
Hank is stationed near the serving line, ladling stew into bowls with gravy. His voice rumbles low when he speaks to each person, steady and kind in a way that softens his hard edges.
And Beck—well, Beck is everywhere.
He’s teasing kids in line, crouching down so he’s eye level, ruffling hair until they giggle.
He’s grabbing second helpings for the elderly when their hands tremble too much to carry both bowls.
He’s got sweat glistening along his temples, his shirt clinging to his shoulders, and yet he never loses that crooked grin.
And people notice.
I catch snippets of whispers, hesitant voices at first.
“That’s Beckett Morgan, isn’t it?”
“Didn’t think he’d ever set foot here.”
“Maybe he’s not as bad as they say.”
The sting of doubt still hangs in the air, but it’s softer now, less certain.
I watch him from across the room, the way he carries himself—he seems lighter, like this: helping, serving, laughing, fits him in a way nothing else has. Beck is nothing like the reputation that’s been chained to his name, and I’m glad people are starting to see that.
The clatter of trays and the murmur of conversation fills the soup kitchen when the air shifts. It’s subtle at first, a ripple more than a wave, but I feel it in the stiffness of shoulders around me, in the way voices dip and eyes flick toward the door.
Then I see them.
My father sweeps in first, the weight of his title carried in the square set of his shoulders and the crisp press of his suit.
His eyes scan the room with a politician’s detachment, not a man looking to help, but a mayor looking to be seen.
My mother follows at his side, her expression already pinched, lips pursed as if she’s walked into a room that smells of rot instead of stew.
And behind them, Rhett, hands shoved into his pockets, his smirk lazy and sharp as a knife.
The Morgans keep working, but the energy falters. I see Ella’s jaw tighten, Ava shift a little closer to Zane. Hank doesn’t falter with his ladle, but there’s a new stiffness in the way he fills each bowl.
“Playing saints today, are we?” my mother says, her voice carrying too far in the small room. “How… unexpected.”
Heat rises up my neck. “We’re doing a food drive, Mother. For the shelter.”
Rhett snorts. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘changed man’ like handing out soup for a day.” His eyes flick to Beck, and I catch the cruel curl of his grin. “Almost convincing.”
Beck doesn’t move. Not a twitch. He’s standing by the pantry door, sleeves shoved up his forearms, still holding a crate he hasn’t set down. His gaze flicks once to me, unreadable, then back to my family.
Father’s voice is measured, the kind of even tone he uses at council meetings when he’s about to dismantle someone.
“You should reconsider tying yourself to them, Quinn. The Morgans thrive in scandal, and the town has suffered for it. This—“ He gestures around. ”—is theater. It won’t erase the truth. ”
The words land heavy, and all I can do is press my palms against the table in front of me to keep them from trembling. I glance at Beck, praying he won’t take the bait, that he won’t lash out and undo all the work we’ve done.
But his jaw is locked tight, and that dangerous stillness clings to him like a storm cloud waiting to break.
Rhett leans back against the counter, folding his arms authoritatively.
His voice drips with the kind of smugness only he’s perfected.
“Should we really pretend we don’t remember?
Everyone’s acting like Beckett Morgan is some misunderstood farm boy.
But the truth…” His gaze slides to me, then lands square on Beck.
“…is that he burned this town to the ground once already.”
“Shut up, Rhett,” I grit out, shame filling me for being related to them.
“Why? Does it hurt to hear the truth? That your beloved fiancé was behind the town hall fire ten years ago. You wouldn’t be here if it didn’t happen, because everyone remembers.”
Mother adds her poison, her voice low but carrying: “Generations built that place. Weddings, funerals, festivals—memories you can’t rebuild with money. And you”—her eyes flick to Beck—“took it all away because you were high and careless.”
A murmur ripples through the volunteers. The old ladies who came to help fold their hands tighter around each other’s arms. My chest caves as the weight of their words settles over the room.
I look at Beck. He hasn’t flinched. His knuckles are white around the crate in his hands, but his face is stone cold. Only his eyes give him away—shadows flickering there, guilt and fury fighting for dominance.
Zane is the first Morgan to break the silence. He sets his ladle down with a hard clatter. “Don’t you dare stand in here and spit on my brother when he’s doing his damn best to make up for what he did.”
Jace steps forward next, his voice low and dangerous. “That fire was an accident. He paid. We all paid. You think dragging it up now makes you righteous? All it makes you is cruel.”
Hank finally looks up from his station. His voice cuts deep. “Beck is my son. You want to blame him? You blame me too. But don’t you forget—we rebuilt that hall. We carried the lumber, we poured the concrete, we paid our debt. You don’t get to act like Beck went unpunished.”
For a moment, the room feels split clean in two—the Atwoods radiating disdain on one side, the Morgans standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the other. And in the middle of it all is Beck, silent, his chest rising and falling. He’s holding something dangerous inside.
I move toward him before I even realize what I’m doing. My hand brushes his arm, grounding him. His eyes finally flick to mine, and what I see there makes my throat tighten, because beneath the fury, beneath the stone mask, there’s a flicker of shame so raw it makes me ache for him.
Before I can speak, another voice cuts through the tension.
“Enough!”
Landon. He steps forward from where he’s been lingering near the doorway, his eyes locked on Beck. For a second, I can’t tell which way he’s leaning, until his next words knock the air out of the room.
“I was there that night.” His tone is steady, deliberate. “Beck messed up, yeah. But he’s owned up to it every day since. You don’t get to keep crucifying him for something he’s already paid for.” He looks at my father and Rhett in turn, defiance plain on his face. “Enough is enough.”
The room shifts as whispers stir at the edges.
Rhett scoffs. “You’re defending him? After what he did to this town?”
Before he can wind up, Louis speaks. My quieter brother, the one who usually avoids choosing sides, finally finds his voice.
His gaze flicks to me, then to Beck, and there’s no hesitation.
“We’ve all done things we regret. The difference is, Beck isn’t pretending it didn’t happen.
He’s out here working, giving back. That’s more than I can say for some people. ”
Inwardly, I’m beaming with pride, watching my brothers stand on Beck’s side. Against our father, Rhett, and the narrative that’s been hammered into this town for a decade.
And in the middle of it, Beck finally shifts. The mask slips, his eyes find mine, and this time I see something new—a spark of hope.
My heart swells, aching with how fiercely I want to protect that flicker from being smothered.
The weight in the room begins to settle, not gone but no longer suffocating.
My brothers’ words hang in the air like a shield, keeping Beck from being swallowed whole by old grudges.
Even the Morgans shift subtly closer to him—Zane clapping a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder, Ella shooting him a quiet smile, Daisy tugging at his sleeve as if to remind him she’s on his team too.
My family retreats with their pride intact but their footing shaken. My father throws me one last warning glare, Rhett mutters something under his breath, and then they’re gone, trailing the scent of disapproval with them.
The soup kitchen hums back to life—pots clanging, voices rising in easy chatter, volunteers sliding into a rhythm again.
I step back, watching Beck surrounded by his family. They all shower him with love and hugs. And me? I’m grinning like a fool, heart full. I laugh softly to myself as I realize something: if this is what it feels like to fight for something worth it, I’m not letting go anytime soon.
Beck smirks at me from across the room, that crooked grin in place, like he already knows what I’m thinking.