A light knock tapped against the bedroom door. Sitting up, I called out.

"Come in."

August's blond head peeked through the door.

"You feeling any better?"

"A little."

The bus took another rough bump. I let out a small pained groan as my stomach dropped.

"Not really," I corrected.

Coming into the room and closing the door, August handed me a small box.

"This might make you feel better."

The label said it was an anti-nausea medication.

"Thanks. Do you have a bottle of water—"

Before I could finish asking, August offered me a bottle of water with his other hand.

I popped a pill out of the foil packet and downed it with a sip of water.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what? It's not your fault I get car sick."

"I mean for before. For what I said."

"For when you metaphorically cracked open my skull and revealed my deepest darkest secrets?"

"Feeling out of place and reserved isn't a dark secret. It's just another part of you." He sat on the side of the bed, turning those unnerving eyes to mine. "Still, I'm sorry for freaking you out. I hate to see you doubt yourself. I want to help you."

Feeling all kinds of awkward and hesitant, I couldn't help but repeat his previous words.

"Help me express my passion?"

"If you let me."

That offer had so many different connotations.

I prodded my finger into a small hole in the hem of my shirt, worrying at the thin material.

"In what way?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

The fierce look that flared up in August's eyes sent my heart racing. My cheeks flushed.

"You said—" I stumbled over my words. "You said passion doesn't have to be sexual."

"Not always," he agreed.

I heard his unspoken words. A tingling sensation spiked through my body, into my chest, between my legs, to the tips of my fingers and toes.

Feeling overwhelmed, I pulled my knees to my chest, my upper thighs clenched unconsciously.

August's gaze softened, the heat in his eyes easing.

"I did the same with the guys," he said easily.

My mouth popped open. Was he saying—?

He chuckled at my shocked look.

"Not in the way you're thinking," he said. "The other guys, when I first found them, they all had an abundance of talent. They had that inner fire all great artists have. But that fire was untempered. Directionless. I knew they had amazing potential, if only someone could teach them to harness it. To channel that passion into brilliance."

"And that's what you want to do with me?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"So I'm another one of your projects?"

His lips twisted, looking thoughtful.

"I suppose you could call it that," he conceded. "But I never waste my time on those who don't have the potential for greatness."

Potential for greatness. I liked the sound of that. I wanted to be great. And if August could help get me there…

I summoned all my courage.

"What do I do?" I asked firmly.

"Start by developing more self-awareness," he said briskly.

I was taken aback. I'd expected an answer slightly more…

Intimate.

"Take note of what you're feeling, why you're feeling it," he continued. "Use a journal, take notes in an app, whatever. Keep some kind of record."

"That really works?"

"It does."

"Okay," I said doubtfully. "I can do that. What else?"

"Challenge yourself. Go out of your comfort zone. Do things that scare you."

"I'm not going skydiving."

"Why don't you start talking to people about your art and go from there?"

I flushed. I hadn't thought my reticence had been so noticeable.

"This next one is the hardest," he warned. "You need to dig deep."

I frowned, confused. "Dig… deep?"

"Into your past. Into your pain. The things that shaped you, the things that turned you into the person you are today. You can't suppress it. You need to drag it out into the light. You need to wrestle with it, fight against it. You can't ignore it."

I let out a laugh.

"I don't have any inner pain. I'm not damaged. I wasn't abused. I don't have some kind of terrible illness."

"Everyone's damaged somehow. It doesn't have to be huge or world changing. Maybe it was the mean boy who teased you on the playground. The teacher who treated you unfairly. Maybe it was the time a parent disappointed you. You need to harness that hurt. You need to channel it. You need to put it into your art. You need to wrestle with your demons, drag them out into the light, and triumph over them."

"That sounds hard," I admitted.

"Art is hard. Life is hard. But it's worth it."

August's eyes shined with sincerity. He believed in what he was saying.

"Is that what you did?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow, questioning.

"Do you have demons you wrestle with?" I clarified.

The corners of his mouth turned down, forehead creasing into a frown.

"I don't want to pry," I hastened to say.

His forehead smoothed.

"It's alright. But yes. I had demons."

"Had?"

"I worked through them," he said. "The same way you will."

"I don't know if I can."

"You have so much passion inside you," August said. "So much spirit. I can see it. You just need to let it out."

He shifted on the bed, fully facing me. His eyes weren't distant or fuzzy like they had been earlier. They were clear, focused, yet somehow inquisitive. I wondered what caused the change even as nerves fluttered in my stomach.

August leaned forward, his face close to mine.

My eyes went wide.

His scent surrounded me, warm and earthy and sweet. Soft, inviting lips were inches away.

My eyes fluttered shut. I held my breath.

Soft lips touched mine.

My pulse spiked, hammering in my chest. Lightning shot through me. A kaleidoscope of colors exploded across my closed lids.

He slowly pulled away. I nearly whimpered.

August slid off the bed.

"I believe in you, Cassie."

My heart swelled, thumping madly beneath my ribcage.

Ice blue eyes gave me one last, tender look before he strode out of the room and shut the door.

For a moment, I'd expected…

For a moment, I'd wanted…

I clasped my hands together in my lap, lacing my trembling fingers.

With one chaste kiss, August Summers made the world fall out from under me.