Wild Hearts

Chapter Eight

⚠️Advisory: This chapter features adult themes and passionate scenes that may not be suitable for all readers. Discretion is advised.⚠️

I catch my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the girl staring back. The moonlight spills through the window, casting an ethereal glow that softens the sharp edges of my face, but I still see the worry lurking in my eyes like a storm brewing on the horizon. My heart beats in a steady rhythm, yet beneath it lies a crackle of excitement, ready to ignite into a wildfire of recklessness.

I tug at my cropped shirt, wishing it could shrink me down, hide me from the weight of what I am about to do. The floorboards creak under my weight, each sound amplified in the stillness, and I step toward the window, glancing over my shoulder to ensure the house remains a tomb of slumber. Dad's snores rumble faintly through the wall, steady and deep, a rhythm that reassures me but also intensifies the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

My fingers wrap around the cold window latch, a shiver racing up my spine. As I crack open the window, a gust of cool air rushes in, filling my lungs with the intoxicating scent of night—a promise of freedom. The world outside feels alive, vibrant, as if the darkness itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to leap.

With a pounding heart, I swing one leg out, then the other, teetering on the edge of the second-floor ledge. The thrill surges through me—part excitement, part fear—threatening to drown out the voice of reason that warns me of the consequences. If Dad finds out, the fallout will be catastrophic, but the thought only fuels my determination.

I take a deep breath, my pulse racing as I let myself drop. I land in a crouch, the soft crunch of dirt beneath my feet punctuating the silence like a gunshot. The night envelops me, the hum of crickets and the rustle of leaves whispering secrets in the darkness. My feet move swiftly, a blur of motion as I navigate the shadows of the farmhouse, my heart thudding louder with each step, anticipation coiling tightly in my chest.

Through the trees, the dark outline of Preston's truck looms just beyond the fence line, a beacon of reckless adventure. I quicken my pace, the thrill of the unknown pulling me closer to him, a magnetic force that promises to shatter the mundane and plunge me into a world where anything can happen. There he is, leaning against the side, arms crossed, waiting. His grin catches the moonlight as I approach, and it feels like the stars themselves are scattered in his eyes. I slip into the passenger seat without a word, but the look he gives me says enough. We drive in silence for a few minutes, the engine's hum a soft background to the beating of my heart.

We stop at the edge of a field, so far from everything that the sky stretches wide, an ocean of stars above us. Preston hops out, drops the truck bed, and gestures toward the back with a playful grin. I climb in, lying back against the worn blankets he has spread out. Above, the stars twinkle like they have been waiting for us, their light cool and distant, yet somehow close enough to touch.

Preston joins me, pulling out some paintbrushes and two small canvases from behind the seat. "I figured we could paint the sky tonight," he says softly, his voice almost lost in the vastness of the night. The thought of it makes me smile—a private moment, just us and the stars. No filters, no likes, just the quiet and the paint, and maybe something more that I am not ready to admit yet.

As Preston settles into the truck bed beside me, there is a teasing glint in his eyes, the kind that always makes me brace myself. He picks up his brush, twirling it between his fingers before he glances over at me.

"You know," he says with a smirk, "I bet you're one of those people who color inside the lines, aren't you?"

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips. "Oh, please. You're one to talk. I'm guessing you've never even used a coloring book. Probably too 'free-spirited' for that, right?"