Chapter Text
Sammie's phone chimed against the nightstand like an angry wasp, dragging him out of a dream where he was back home in Mississippi, singing in his daddy's church. The caller ID made his stomach drop. It was his manager, Devon.
"We got a problem." Devon's voice was tight, the way it got when money was involved. "How fast can you get to the label?"
"What kind of problem?" Sammie sat up, sheets pooling around his bare waist. Through the thin walls of his Nashville apartment, he could hear his neighbor's alarm clock screaming.
"The kind that ends careers. One hour, Sammie. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Sammie stared at his phone, pulse hammering. In the music industry, early morning crisis calls meant one of three things: death, drugs, or scandal. Since he was alive and had never touched anything harder than communion wine, that left only...
Fuck.
He threw on yesterday's jeans and a wrinkled button-down that still smelled like the studio, sweat and that vanilla candle Pearline always burned during sessions. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like shit: eyes puffy and skin ashy, his braids in desperate need of attention. But there wasn't time.
The ride to Music Row felt like heading to his own execution. Nashville was already awake, the streets full of tourists in cowboy hats they'd bought at the airport. Sammie pressed his forehead against the window and tried not to panic.
The label's building loomed like a glass and steel judgment. The elevator ride to the executive floor lasted approximately seven years. When the doors opened, Devon was waiting, his usually perfect fade looking ragged.
"How bad?" Sammie asked.
"Conference room. Now."
The room was full of suits in the variety of label executives, publicists, and in the corner, inexplicably, Remmick Wilder.
Sammie's step faltered. What the fuck was he doing here?
Remmick looked like he'd rolled out of bed and straight into the meeting. Ripped jeans, a flannel that had seen better decades, hair falling into those blue eyes that had been haunting Sammie's periphery for months. He was sprawled in his chair like he owned the place, long legs stretched out, playing with an unlit cigarette.
"Sit," Sheila, the head of PR barked. She had that look, the one that meant someone was about to get their ass handed to them.
Sammie sat.
"We got a call from TMZ an hour ago," Sheila said without preamble. "They have photos of you at Tribe last weekend."
Tribe was a gay bar in East Nashville where Sammie had gone to feel human for five fucking minutes. Where he'd danced with a stranger, let himself pretend he wasn't the preacher's son from Clarksdale, Mississippi.
"Photos of what?" His voice came out steady.
Sheila slid a tablet across the table. The images were grainy but clear enough: Sammie on the dance floor, another man's hands on his hips. Sammie at the bar, leaning close to hear over the music. Nothing explicit, but in context...
"They're running the story tomorrow unless we give them something better." Sheila's smile was sharp as a blade. "Lucky for you, I have a solution."
"Which is?"
"You're already in a relationship. Have been for months. With someone respectable, from inside the industry. Someone whose reputation can handle a little controversy."
Sammie's throat went dry. "I'm not dating anybody."
"You are now." Sheila's eyes flicked to the corner. "Wilder's agreed to help."
Remmick pushed off from the wall with lazy grace, coming to perch on the edge of the conference table. Close enough that Sammie could smell him and his scent of cigarettes and whiskey and something dark, like soil after rain.
"Hey, baby," Remmick drawled, and every head in the room swiveled between them. "Guess the cat's out of the bag."
"We're not dating!"
"Sure we are." Remmick's smile was slow, predatory. "We been keepin' it quiet 'cause of your family situation. But if somebody's tryna out you..." He shrugged, the motion making his flannel gap open at the throat. "Rather control the narrative, yeah?"
Sammie couldn't breathe. Remmick Wilder was North Carolina's prodigal son, indie folk's favorite disaster and he was volunteering to be Sammie’s fake boyfriend. The same Remmick who'd been showing up at Sammie's sessions, watching from the control room with those hungry eyes. Who'd cornered him at the label Christmas party, drunk and swaying, whispering that Sammie's voice made him believe in God again.
"Your collaboration drops in three weeks," Devon said, finally speaking up. "The timing's perfect. Love songs hit different when the artists are actually together."
"Think of the streaming numbers," someone else chimed in.
"The tour sales."
"The press coverage."
They were dividing him up like meat, and Remmick just sat there, smiling.
"I need to call my folks," Sammie said weakly.
"After we lock down the story." Sheila was already typing. "First appearance is tonight. Industry party at the Sutler. Arrive together, leave together. Make it convincing."
"I don't—"
"I'll take care of him." Remmick's voice dropped low, intimate despite the room full of people. His hand found Sammie's shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle like he was marking territory. "Won't let anything happen to you, sugar."
The possession in his tone should have been a red flag. Instead, Sammie's traitorous body leaned into the touch.
"One more thing," Sheila added. "Your phone. We need to scrub your socials, make sure there's nothing that contradicts the timeline."
Sammie handed it over numbly. This was happening. His carefully constructed closet, the one that protected his daddy's reputation and his mama's heart, was being demolished in a conference room.
"Six months," Devon murmured in his ear as the meeting broke up. "Play along for six months, then have an amicable split. Easy."
Easy. Right.
Remmick waited until the suits cleared out, then crowded into Sammie's space. "You good?"
"Do I look good?" Sammie snapped.
"You look perfect." The words came out rough, sincere in a way that made Sammie's chest tight. "Listen, I know this is fucked. But I meant what I said. I'll take care of you."
"Why?" Sammie had to ask. "What's in it for you?"
"Maybe I just don't like seeing good people get hurt." His thumb was still moving on Sammie's shoulder, little circles that sent heat straight down his spine. "Or I've been wanting an excuse to put my hands on you since the first time I heard you singin'."
The honesty of it knocked Sammie sideways.
"We can't—"
"I'm your boyfriend now, remember?" Remmick's grin was sharp. "Might as well make it good."
He left Sammie standing there, head spinning, shoulder burning where he'd been touched.
The ride home was a blur. Sammie's phone, returned and sanitized, buzzed with instructions: what to wear, what to say, how to sell their sudden love story. He had three hours before Remmick would pick him up for their debut.
Three hours to figure out how to pretend to date a man who looked at him like he wanted to devour him whole.
His cousins' apartment was closer than his own. Sammie redirected the driver, needing Stack and Smoke like he needed air. The twins would know what to do. They always did.
But when Smoke opened the door, took one look at Sammie's face, and said, "Oh shit, what happened?" Sammie realized there was no preparing for this.
He was about to fake date Remmick Wilder.
And the worst part? Some dark, hidden part of him was already looking forward to it.
The twins' apartment smelled like weed and Annie's shea butter. Sammie sat between his cousins on their busted leather couch, trying to explain the unexplainable while Stack rolled a blunt.
"So lemme get this straight," Smoke said, leaning forward. "They bout to out your ass, so you fakin’ a whole ass relationship with that white boy who be starin’ at you like you Sunday dinner?"
"That's about it, yeah."
"The one with the serial killer eyes?" Stack licked the paper, sealing it neat. "Nah, cuz. That ain't it."
Annie came out the kitchen with a plate of leftover mac and cheese, shoving it in Sammie's hands. "Baby, you needa eat. Can't be dealin' with crazy on an empty stomach."
"He ain't crazy," Sammie protested weakly.
"He's somethin'," Mary called from the bedroom. "Remember that Christmas party? Man had you cornered like he was tryna harvest your organs."
Sammie remembered. Remmick drunk and swaying, whispering about God and music, about wanting to crawl inside Sammie and live there. It should have scared him. It had. But he'd gone home and jerked off to the memory, coming with Remmick's name in his mouth.
"It's six months," he said. "I can handle six months."
The twins exchanged a look, that twin telepathy shit that made Sammie feel like an only child even though he had four siblings back home.
"When's the first show?" Smoke asked.
"Tonight. Some industry party."
"We comin’."
"You can't."
"The fuck we can't." Stack stood, all six-foot-three of righteous fury. "You think we lettin’ you walk into some white folks' party with that man without backup? Nah."
Sammie wanted to argue, but the mac and cheese was warm and Annie's hand on his shoulder was steady and maybe he needed his people for this.
His phone chimed: Car will be there at 8. Wear something that shows your neck. -R
The cousins read it over his shoulder.
"See?" Stack exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Serial killer."
But Sammie was already thinking about his wardrobe, about what would show his neck and why Remmick wanted that skin on display.
He was so fucked.
At 7:58, Sammie stood outside his building in black jeans and a deep green silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough. The November air bit at his exposed throat. He'd edged himself up fresh, moisturized until his brown skin glowed under the streetlights. If he was doing this, he was doing it right.
The car that pulled up wasn't the label's usual town car. It was a murdered-out vintage Mustang that purred like it ate other cars for breakfast. The window rolled down, and there was Remmick, looking like trouble in a leather jacket.
"Get in, baby."
That fucking pet name. Sammie slid into the passenger seat, immediately drowning in that same scent of cigarettes and earth.
"You look good," Remmick said, pulling into traffic. His eyes kept flicking to Sammie's throat. "Real good."
"Where's the label car?"
"Told 'em we'd handle our own transportation." Remmick's hand found the gear shift, knuckles brushing Sammie's knee with each change. "More believable if we arrive in my car. Like I picked you up from home. Like we been doing this."
The logic was sound. The execution was making Sammie's skin feel too tight.
"We need to get our story straight," Sammie said. "How long we been together, how we met."
"Three months. Met at that songwriter's round at the Bluebird. You sang 'Heavy Is the Crown' and I knew I was fucked. Asked you for coffee after. You said no. I kept askin'. You finally said yes to shut me up."
The detail was unsettling. "You really thought about this."
"I think 'bout you a lot."
The admission hung between them like a dare. Sammie turned to watch Nashville blur past the window rather than examine what that meant.
The Sutler was packed, valet line three deep with Teslas and Range Rovers. Remmick handed over the keys like they didn't matter, then came around to Sammie's door before he could open it.
"Ready?" His hand was out, waiting.
Sammie took it.
The contact was electric, Remmick's fingers threading through his like they belonged there. He pulled Sammie close as they walked, and there it was: the first camera flash.
"Smile, baby," Remmick murmured. "We're in love, remember?"
The party was the usual industry bullshit of too many people in too small a space, everyone talking about streaming numbers and tour routing. But the energy shifted when they walked in. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned.
Remmick played it perfect. His hand on Sammie's lower back never left, guiding him through the crowd. Leaning in to whisper commentary about the worst dressed producers. Getting drinks and knowing without asking that Sammie wanted whiskey neat.
"Damn, y'all really came together."
Pearline appeared at Sammie's elbow, resplendent in a gold dress that made her dark skin glow. Her eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Hey, P." Sammie accepted her hug, careful not to let go of Remmick's hand.
"Wilder." She nodded at Remmick, who nodded back, silent.
"How long this been goin' on?" she asked.
"Few months," Sammie said, sticking to the script. "Kept it quiet."
"'Cause of your daddy, I know." Her expression softened. "You good, though? For real?"
Before Sammie could answer, Remmick's arm slid around his waist, pulling him back against that solid chest.
"He's good," Remmick said, and the possession in it made Pearline's eyebrows climb. "We're good."
She looked between them, then at where Remmick's thumb was stroking Sammie's hip bone through silk.
"I can see that." She squeezed Sammie's hand. "Call me later?"
When she walked away, Remmick's grip tightened.
"She wants you," he said, voice low and dark.
"She's my friend."
"Well she wants to be more."
"Even if that was true," Sammie turned in his arms, ready to argue, and found himself pressed against Remmick's chest, their faces inches apart. "What's it to you? This is fake."
Remmick's eyes dropped to his mouth. "The way you're shakin’ says different."
He was right. Sammie was trembling, caught between the solid heat of Remmick's body and the weight of too many eyes on them.
"People are watchin’," he managed.
Remmick's hand slid up to cup the back of his neck, thumb pressing into that sensitive spot behind his ear. "Let them."
Sammie found himself melting into it, letting Remmick take his weight, letting himself be held like something precious and owned.
They stayed like that, swaying slightly like there was music only they could hear, until Devon appeared.
"Great job, you two. Very convincing." He was already scrolling through his phone. "Twitter's going crazy. Keep it up."
He disappeared back into the crowd, leaving them standing there, still pressed together.
"You wanna get out of here?" Remmick asked.
"We just got here."
"And we been seen. Job done." His thumb was still moving on Sammie's neck in a hypnotic motion. "Unless you wanna stay? Let me show you off some more?"
The offer was tempting. Too tempting.
"The twins are here somewhere," Sammie said instead of answering. "My cousins. They wanted to meet you."
"Yeah? Let's find them, then."
They located Smoke and Stack posted up by the bar, looking like elegant threats in their matching gold chains. The twins gave Remmick the kind of once-over that had sent lesser men running.
"So you the one tryna wife our cousin," Smoke said.
"Tryin’?" Remmick's smile was sharp. "Succeeding."
"We'll see 'bout that." Smoke stepped closer, using every inch of his height. "You know Sammie's family, right? Know what you signin’ up for?"
"I know he's got people who love him. People who'll fuck me up if I hurt him." Remmick didn't back down an inch. "Means we want the same thing."
The twins exchanged another look.
"Aight," Smoke said finally. "You'll do for now."
"But we watchin’ you," Stack added. "And we don't sleep."
"Noted." Remmick turned to Sammie. "You ready to go now?"
Sammie was ready to crawl out of his skin. The whole night felt like foreplay with every touch, every possessive word.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's go."
The valet brought the Mustang around. This time, Remmick's hand found his thigh as soon as they pulled away, heavy and warm through his jeans.
"Your cousins are protective," he said.
"They been taking care of me since I moved here. They don't play about me."
Remmick's hand squeezed. "Neither do I."
The words sent heat straight to Sammie's dick. He shifted, trying to ease the pressure.
Remmick noticed. Of course he did.
"You need me to take you home?" The question was loaded with possibility.
"Yeah," Sammie breathed. "Home."
But when they pulled up to his building, Remmick put the car in park and turned to face him.
"Three months," he said.
"What?"
"That's how long I been wantin’ to touch you. Since that songwriter's round at the Bluebird. You sang 'Heavy Is the Crown' and I thought: that's it. That's the voice I wanna hear saying my name when he comes."
"Remmick."
"I know this is fake for you. But it ain't for me." His hand was still on Sammie's thigh, burning through denim. "So I'm gonna play this role perfect. Gonna be the best boyfriend you never had. And when six months are up, we'll see if you still think it's pretend."
He leaned across the console, and Sammie thought, This is it. He's gonna kiss me.
Instead, Remmick pressed his lips to Sammie's pulse point, right where his neck was bare. Just a brush of contact, but it lit Sammie up like a struck match.
"Goodnight, baby," Remmick murmured against his skin. "Dream about me."
Sammie stumbled out of the car on shaking legs, dick hard and head spinning. He made it to his apartment, fell face-first on his bed, and shoved his hand down his pants.
He came thinking about Remmick's mouth on his throat, Remmick's voice saying mine, Remmick's promise to be the best boyfriend he never had.
His phone chimed: Check TMZ
The headline read: "Gospel Star Sammie Moore Steps Out with Indie Bad Boy Remmick Wilder."
Below was a photo from tonight of Remmick's arms around him, both of them looking at each other like the rest of the world didn't exist.
Another text from Remmick: You look good in my arms. Can't wait for tomorrow. Sleep tight, baby.
Sammie stared at the ceiling, come cooling on his stomach, and wondered what the fuck he'd gotten himself into.
Sammie woke to his phone having a whole breakdown. Seventeen missed calls from his mama. Thirty-two texts from siblings. A voicemail from his daddy that he wasn't brave enough to play yet.
And one message from Remmick: Good morning, boyfriend. Car coming at 10 for Good Morning Nashville. Wear blue.
It was almost nine. Sammie had an hour to get his shit together and figure out how to explain to daytime television that he was suddenly, publicly, unapologetically gay.
His mama picked up on the first ring.
"Samuel Joseph Moore, what in the Lord's name is going on?"
"Mama."
"I got Sister Patterson callin’ me at six in the morning, talking bout she seen you on the computer with some man. Said y'all was hugged up like—like—"
"Like boyfriends?" Sammie supplied, aiming for casual and missing by miles.
The silence stretched. He could picture her in the kitchen back home, coffee cooling while she processed this.
"How long?" she asked finally.
"Three months." The lie tasted sour, but what was one more?
"Three months and you didn't tell me? Didn't tell your daddy?"
"I was scared." That, at least, was true.
"Oh, baby." Her voice cracked. "You know we love you. No matter what."
"Daddy doesn't."
"Your daddy loves you more than breath. He just... needs time. This a lot."
"I know."
"This boy. Remmick? He good to you?"
Sammie thought about last night, about possessive hands and promises that felt like threats. "Yeah, Mama. He's good to me."
"Then I want to meet him. Bring him to Sunday dinner."
"Mama."
"Two weeks, Samuel. That gives your daddy time to adjust and me time to cook."
She hung up before he could argue.
The label's car arrived at 10:01. Sammie slid in wearing the blue shirt Remmick suggested, feeling like he was following stage directions. Which, technically, he was.
Remmick was already there, sprawled across the leather seats like he owned them. Different leather jacket today, worn soft as butter. His hair was artfully messy, and he smelled like expensive cologne trying to cover cigarette smoke.
"Morning, baby." He pulled Sammie in for a kiss on the cheek, lingering just long enough for the driver to notice. "Sleep good?"
"My folks know."
"Yeah?" Remmick's hand found his knee, steady and warm. "How'd that go?"
"My mama wants you to come to Sunday dinner."
Remmick's eyes lit up. "Yeah? When?"
"You don't have to."
"When, Sammie?"
"Two weeks."
"I'll be there." He said it simple, like it wasn't a declaration of war. "Your daddy gonna try to save my soul?"
"Probably."
"Been needin' saving."
The Good Morning Nashville studio was aggressively cheerful with yellow walls, fake plants, and a host named Cheryl who smiled like she was being held at gunpoint. They were shuttled to hair and makeup, where Remmick charmed the stylists while keeping one hand on Sammie at all times.
"Y'all are so cute together," the makeup artist gushed, powdering Sammie's shine away. "How long y'all been dating?"
"Three months," they said in unison.
"But I been gone for him longer than that," Remmick added, watching Sammie in the mirror. "First time I heard him sing, I knew I was done for."
The stylist actually clutched her chest. "That's so romantic!"
Sammie caught Remmick's eyes in the mirror. The fucker winked.
The interview itself was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Cheryl started soft by asking about their collaboration, the new single, how their different styles blended. Then she went for the throat.
"So, Sammie, this is quite a departure from your gospel roots. What does your family think about your relationship?"
Sammie felt Remmick tense beside him.
"My parents want me happy," Sammie said carefully. "And Remmick makes me happy."
"But surely there's been some... pushback? From the gospel community?"
"There's always people who got opinions about how others should live," Remmick cut in, voice going sharp. "But Sammie's gift, his voice comes from God. Love comes from God. Anyone got a problem with that can take it up with Him."
Cheryl blinked, clearly not expecting theology from the indie bad boy.
"That's... beautiful," she managed. "And how did you two meet?"
They told the lie smooth as silk about the songwriter's round, the persistent pursuit, the slow fall into inevitable love. Remmick's hand found Sammie's halfway through, fingers interlacing on camera. By the time they wrapped, #Sammick was trending.
In the car after, Sammie exhaled hard. "That was..."
"You did perfect." Remmick hadn't let go of his hand. "Cheryl didn't know what hit her."
"'Love comes from God'? Really?"
"What? I can't quote scripture? Matthew 7:1-2. Judge not, that ye be not judged." Remmick's thumb stroked across his knuckles. "Went to church too, you know. Before I figured out they didn't want my kind."
There was a story there, but they were pulling up to the label for their scheduled studio time. The single needed one more vocal pass, and then they'd be done. Just them and Delta Slim and whatever this electric thing between them was.
Except when they walked in, Pearline was in the booth, running scales.
"What's she doin' here?" Remmick's whole body went tight.
"Featured verse," Devon explained, not looking up from his phone. "Label thinks it needs a third voice. Pearline agreed to lay something down."
"We don't need her."
"It's fine," Sammie interrupted. Remmick was radiating possession like a furnace, and they didn't need that smoke in the studio. "Hey, P."
She waved through the glass, smile bright as summer.
They settled in to listen to her pass. Pearline's voice was liquid gold, sliding between their harmonies like she'd always belonged there. But every time she looked at Sammie through the booth glass, Remmick's jaw got tighter.
"Take five," Delta Slim said after the third run. "Sammie, let me hear you on that bridge again."
Sammie headed for the booth, but Remmick followed.
"What are you doing?"
"Comin' with you." Remmick crowded him against the door. "Moral support."
"I don't need you."
"Baby." The pet name was loaded now, heavy with intent. "Let me take care of you."
In the booth, Remmick stood behind him, hands on his hips, as Sammie sang. Every breath felt watched. Every note felt claimed. When he hit the high note on "save me," Remmick's grip tightened, and Sammie's voice cracked just enough to make it real.
"Perfect," Delta Slim called. "That's the one."
But Remmick didn't let go. If anything, he pressed closer, until Sammie could feel his heartbeat through both their shirts.
"You hear that?" he murmured in Sammie's ear. "How good you sound?"
"Remmick."
"She can't have you." It came out raw, desperate. "I don't care what the label wants. You're mine."
"This is fake," Sammie reminded him, but his voice shook.
"No." Remmick turned him around, caged him against the booth wall. "It's not."
The kiss wasn't for cameras or gossip blogs or anyone but them. Remmick kissed him like he was drowning and Sammie was air. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for permission. His tongue swept into Sammie's mouth, claiming and desperate, while his hands framed Sammie's face like he was the only thing that mattered.
Sammie made a broken sound and kissed back. Fuck the plan. Fuck the label. Fuck everything that wasn't Remmick's mouth on his, hot and demanding and perfect.
"Um." Pearline's voice crackled through the intercom. "Y'all know we can see you, right?"
They broke apart, panting. Remmick's eyes were blown wide, lips swollen. He looked wrecked.
"Shit," Sammie breathed.
"Yeah." Remmick pressed their foreheads together. "We should probably talk about that."
"You think?"
But then Devon was knocking on the booth door, and Delta Slim was calling for one more take, and the moment shattered like glass.
They finished the session in a haze of unresolved tension. Every look felt loaded. Every accidental touch sent sparks down Sammie's spine. Pearline watched them with knowing eyes but mercifully kept her commentary to herself.
Afterwards, in the parking lot, Remmick caught his wrist.
"Come home with me."
"Remmick."
"Not for—just come home with me. We need to talk. Figure out what this is."
"I know what this is. It's a business arrangement that you just complicated."
"It was already complicated." Remmick's thumb found his pulse point. "Been complicated since the first time I heard you sing."
A text lit up Sammie's phone: his daddy. We need to talk.
"I can't," Sammie said. "I gotta do family stuff."
Remmick studied his face, then nodded. "Soon, then. We got that magazine shoot."
"Yeah."
"Sammie?" He was walking away, but Remmick's voice stopped him. "That kiss wasn't fake. Not for me."
Sammie didn't answer. Couldn't. He just got in his car and drove toward the reckoning waiting for him, Remmick's taste still on his tongue.
The drive to his daddy's church took almost five hours. Sammie parked outside the small brick building that had been his second home growing up, hands shaking on the wheel.
Greater Faith Baptist looked exactly the same as the last time Sammie had seen it, white steeple reaching toward heaven, sign out front still missing the second 'S' in "BLESSINGS." But everything felt different now that Sammie was walking in as a publicly gay man.
His father's office door was open. Pastor Moore sat behind his desk, looking older than his fifty-three years.
"Close the door, son."
Sammie did, then sat in the chair he'd occupied for countless lectures about grades and girls and godliness.
"Three months," his daddy said quietly. "You been carrying this for three months."
"Longer than that." The truth slipped out before Sammie could stop it. "Been carrying it my whole life, Daddy. Just... finally got tired."
His father's hands folded on the desk, the same hands that had baptized Sammie, taught him to tie a tie at thirteen, blessed him before he left for Nashville at twenty-one.
"This boy. You love him?"
The question Sammie had been avoiding since Remmick kissed him in that booth like he was something worth worshiping.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe. It's complicated."
"Love ain't supposed to be complicated, son. Either you do or you don't."
"You see the news? The blogs? How's that not complicated?"
"I ain't talkin' 'bout the world. I'm talkin' 'bout your heart." His daddy leaned forward. "When you're with him, how do you feel?"
Terrified. Alive. Wanted. Seen.
"Like I can breathe," Sammie said.
His father nodded slow, processing. "Your mama says I need to meet him."
"Daddy, you don't gotta."
"I do. If he's important to you, I need to know him. Need to see for myself who's got my boy lookin' like he's walkin' on water and drownin' at the same time."
"Two weeks. Mama invited him to Sunday dinner."
"Samuel." He stood, came around the desk. "I don't understand this. May never understand it. But you're my son. My firstborn. That don't change."
The hug hit Sammie like a freight train. He buried his face in his daddy's shoulder and breathed in Old Spice and conviction, feeling thirteen again.
"I love you, Daddy."
"Love you too, son."
By the time Sammie made it back to Nashville the next day, Twitter had lost its entire mind. Someone had leaked video from the studio, a grainy footage of Remmick kissing him in the booth.
His phone rang as he let himself into his apartment.
"Tell me that was planned," Devon said without preamble.
"It wasn't."
"Jesus Christ, Sammie. Do you know what this looks like?"
"Like two people in a relationship kissing?"
"Like Remmick Wilder corrupting gospel's golden boy in a fucking recording booth!"
"Nobody's corruptin’ anybody."
"Check your mentions. Check the hashtags. The gospel stations are already threatening to pull your music."
Sammie's stomach dropped. He pulled up Twitter, scrolling through the carnage. #SammieMoore was trending, but so was #Blasphemy. The video had been shared thousands of times—some celebrating, others condemning.
One tweet stopped him cold: Somebody needs to save Sammie Moore from himself.
His phone chimed with another incoming call. It was Remmick this time.
"You see it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you in public like that."
"It's fine."
"No, it ain't. This is hurting you." A pause. "Want me to put out a statement? Say it was staged?"
The offer sat between them like a test. Sammie could say yes, let Remmick take the fall, and protect what was left of his gospel career.
"No," he heard himself say. "We don't lie about this."
"Sammie."
"You said it wasn't fake for you. Was that true?"
"Every word."
"Then we don't lie."
The silence stretched, full of something Sammie couldn't name.
"The magazine shoot's at two tomorrow," Remmick said finally. "Want me to pick you up?"
"I'll meet you there."
"Sammie? We're gonna get through this."
After they hung up, Sammie sat in his apartment, watching Nashville go about its business.
He texted the group chat he had with the twins: Y'all round? need some family.
Smoke responded immediately: Come through. Annie making oxtails.
That's how Sammie ended up back on their couch, belly full of food, head in Annie's lap while she played with his hair.
"So you kissed him," Mary said, not a question.
"He kissed me."
"And you kissed back," Stack added.
"Yeah."
"In front of God and Delta Slim and everybody."
"Yeah."
"And now black Twitter wants you crucified."
"Pretty much."
Annie's hands kept moving, soothing. "How you feel about it?"
"Scared," Sammie admitted. "But also... free? Like I been holding my breath for years and finally got to exhale."
"That's Remmick's doing?"
"Maybe. Yeah. I don't know."
"You like him," Smoke said.
"I think he might be obsessed with me."
"And?"
"And I think I might like it."
"Long as you're being safe," Stack said carefully.
"We haven't even... It's just been one kiss."
"I ain’t talkin’ about sex, cuz. I'm talking about your heart. Men like that, they don't love halfway. You ready for that?"
Sammie thought about Remmick's hands on his hips in the booth, his voice saying mine like a prayer and a promise.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I wanna find out."
Annie bent down, kissed his forehead. "Then find out, baby. Just remember you got family."
That night, Sammie lay in bed scrolling through the damage. Gospel blogs calling for boycotts while his fans were defending him. Think pieces about sexuality in sacred music. His streaming numbers, ironically, going through the roof.
A text from Remmick: Can't stop thinking about how you taste. See you tomorrow, baby.
Sammie pressed his phone to his chest and let himself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if this was real. If tomorrow's photo shoot was for a real couple coming out to the world.
Another text: Goodnight, Sammie. Dream about me.
He did.