Part Eighteen - Part Three

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The art gallery hums with quiet elegance, the soft murmur of conversations mingling with the faint strains of classical music drifting from hidden speakers.

Paintings and sculptures, vibrant and evocative, line the walls and fill the space, drawing my attention as Drew and I stroll hand in hand through the exhibits.

The weight of the past week's drama feels momentarily distant, replaced by the tranquil beauty of the art surrounding us.

Drew stops in front of a canvas, his brow furrowing as he studies the swirling blues and golds. "What do you think it means?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

I glance at the painting, a chaotic storm of color that seems both destructive and strangely beautiful. "I think it's about finding calm in the middle of chaos," I reply, my voice soft. "Or maybe it's just chaos."

Drew chuckles, his arm brushing against mine. "Fitting, considering the week we've had."

Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the peaceful atmosphere. "Day?"

I stiffen, the sound pulling me from the moment. Turning toward the source, I spot Davon weaving through the crowd, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

His smile is friendly, but there's a hint of hesitation in his steps, as if he's unsure of his reception.

"Davon," I say, keeping my tone neutral as he approaches. Drew's hand tightens slightly around mine, a subtle reminder of his presence.

"What brings you to an art gallery?" I ask, feigning casual curiosity though I already know he's here for more than just the art.

Davon raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk. "Really? Acting like you don't know me?" His gaze shifts to Drew briefly before returning to me. "But no, that's not why I'm here."

The atmosphere around us feels taut, the unsaid words hanging between us like a fraying thread. Davon steps closer, lowering his voice slightly. "I wanted to talk to you, Day. To apologize."

Drew crosses his arms, his posture stiffening as his wary eyes follow Davon's every move. "Apologize for what, exactly?" he asks, his voice cool.

Davon exhales deeply, glancing at me with a mixture of sincerity and regret. "For stirring things up. For... whatever role I played in the mess with Chad. I wasn't trying to cause trouble."

Drew scoffs lightly, the sound sharp against the gallery's serenity. "Well, you succeeded anyway."

"Drew," I murmur, placing a hand on his arm in an attempt to ease the tension. He doesn't look at me, his jaw tightening.

Davon takes a step back, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Look, I get it. You're protective. But I'm not here to start anything. I value my friendship with Day. I respect what you two have." He pauses, his voice softening. "I just wanted to say that."

The sincerity in Davon's tone makes me pause, and I glance at Drew, silently pleading with him to let it go. His eyes flicker to me, and after a moment, his posture relaxes just slightly.

"Fine," Drew says curtly, though his tone is far from forgiving.

"Thanks, Davon," I interject, offering a small, conciliatory smile. "I appreciate that. We both do."

Davon nods, his gaze lingering on me for a beat longer before he steps back. "Enjoy the gallery," he says, his voice lighter now, before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Drew exhales sharply, his shoulders still tense. "You trust him?"

I look up at him, meeting his guarded gaze. "I think he means it, Drew. He's just trying to fix things."

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "Fixing things would've been keeping his distance in the first place."

"Hey," I say softly, brushing my fingers against his arm. "He's not the enemy here. Let's just... move on, okay?"

Drew hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line before he nods. "Fine. For now."

We continue through the gallery, but the encounter lingers in the air between us. The art feels less vivid now, the weight of unspoken concerns settling back in.

As we pass a sculpture of two figures intertwined, Drew stops again, his expression softening.

"That's us," he says suddenly, nodding toward the sculpture.

I tilt my head, studying the piece. The figures are locked in an embrace, their bodies carved with intricate detail, but there's an undeniable tension in their poses, a push and pull that feels almost alive.

"How so?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He turns to me, his gaze steady. "Because even when we're tangled up in everything else-Chad, Jake, Davon-we're still here. Together." His voice is quiet but resolute, and it sends a warmth through me that I wasn't expecting.

I smile, the tension between us easing. "You're such a softie sometimes," I tease gently.

He chuckles, pulling me closer. "Don't let it get out. I have a reputation to maintain."

As we stand there, the noise of the world receding for a moment, I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, amidst all the chaos, Drew and I can find our calm. Together.

Later sitting beside him on a wooden bench under a sky dusted with stars, the vulnerability in his voice cuts through the stillness.

"Day," he begins softly, his gaze fixed on the ground. "Do you... trust Davon?"

The hesitation in his tone catches me off guard. I glance at him, noting the way his fingers fidget against the bench, tracing aimless patterns into the worn wood.

"I think so," I reply carefully, unsure of where this is leading. "He's been a good friend-most of the time."

Drew's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I'm not saying he's not your friend," he says after a moment, his voice low but steady. "I just... I don't like how he looks at you, like he's waiting for something."

His words catch me off guard. "Drew," I murmur, shifting closer to him. "You don't have to worry about Davon. I chose to be with you even with this fake situation and nothing is going to change that."

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of relief and doubt. "You chose me," he echoes, as though needing the reassurance of his own words. Then, softer, he adds, "I just needed to hear you say it."

I reach for his hand, intertwining my fingers with his. "I'll say it as many times as you need," I promise. His thumb brushes over mine in response, and for a moment, the world feels still.

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