Country A$$ Shit

                                    

                                          
The morning after the confrontation, Morgan woke up to a quiet house. Presley was still curled up beside him, her soft breathing the only sound in the room. For a moment, everything seemed peaceful. But as soon as he reached for his phone, the weight of the world crashed back in.
His screen was flooded with notifications—texts from his team, missed calls, and headlines flashing across every media platform. He sighed heavily, bracing himself before scrolling through the messages.
"Morgan Wallen's Tennessee Temper: Paparazzi Knocked Out in Altercation"
"Country Star Brawls with Paparazzi on Private Property"
"Morgan Wallen Caught in Violent Clash with Photographer"
Each headline felt like a punch to the gut. The media had latched onto the story, twisting it into a spectacle. No mention of the photographer trespassing, no discussion about the invasion of privacy. It was all about the punch—his punch.
"Morgan?" Presley's sleepy voice cut through his thoughts. She sat up beside him, rubbing her eyes. "What's going on?"
He handed her his phone without a word. Her expression shifted as she read the headlines, her brows furrowing. "Oh no..."
"Yeah," he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. "It's all over the place. They're making me out to be the bad guy."
Presley handed the phone back and sighed. "We knew there'd be backlash, but this? They're blowing it out of proportion."
"I don't regret standing up for us," Morgan said, his voice firm. "But now they've got more fuel for their fire. My team's gonna lose it."
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, lighting up with an incoming call from his manager. Morgan answered, already bracing for the worst.
"Morgan, what the hell happened?" his manager's voice was frantic. "I've been getting calls all morning from reporters. This is a PR nightmare."
Morgan leaned back against the headboard, pressing a hand to his forehead. "The guy was trespassing, and I lost my temper. I'm not apologizing for protecting my privacy."
"Well, that punch is all anyone's talking about," his manager continued. "News outlets are running with it, and social media's blowing up. Half the people think you're a hero for standing your ground, but the other half? They're calling you unstable, dangerous."
Morgan gritted his teeth, already feeling the tension building. "I'll deal with it. I'll make a statement, but I'm not about to sit here and let them spin this any way they want."
Presley squeezed his hand, offering silent support as his manager continued.
"You're gonna have to get in front of this. We need a strong statement, and you need to address this before it spirals even further. Right now, you're on thin ice with a lot of people."
"Fine," Morgan said, his tone flat. "I'll work on something. But I'm not apologizing for defending myself and Presley."
After a few more exchanges, Morgan ended the call and tossed his phone onto the bed. He rubbed his temples, feeling the stress of the situation pressing down on him.
"They're acting like I attacked the guy out of nowhere," he muttered. "No one cares that he was trespassing, invading our space. It's all about the punch."
Presley frowned, scrolling through some of the comments on social media. "It's frustrating, but some people get it. Listen to this—'About time someone taught those paparazzi a lesson. Wallen's just protecting his home.'"
Morgan let out a bitter chuckle. "Too bad those aren't the ones making headlines."
But the reality of the situation was undeniable. The media frenzy was growing by the hour, and Morgan knew he couldn't stay silent for long. As the hours passed, news articles kept popping up, each more sensational than the last: