Since that night with Jasmine, I replayed the moment like some love-struck fool hit by Cupid's bow. Her giving me the bandana and staying by my side until I was better set my chest on fire. She invaded my every thought, creeping into my heart. I longed to be by her again. But was it really me who wanted to or Imami? 

So, I followed her. Not on some stalker-type shit—I just had to know she was okay every second. While keeping tabs on Jasmine, I learned a few things. She's in the art department, which branches into photography. That put us relatively close since my major was in visual arts, with a minor in sculpture. 

I carried a new bandana I bought for her in my bag, waiting for the right chance to give it to her, but the chance never came. Either I chickened out, or her friend was always with her. Even when she came to the gym for her photography assignment, she never came close to me—she stayed glued to Maribel. And I always watched Jasmine, hoping she'd look my way. When she didn't, I was disappointed.

She played it cool, pretending she didn't see me standing by the gym doors when she walked by with her friend, laughing at some dad joke she'd told.

"You gotta talk to her, Dom," Treyvon said, walking up to me and wiping his face with a towel.

"I don't gotta do shit."

Treyvon put me in a headlock. He stank of sweat, and I gagged. "She's your mate."

"I don't give a damn. She's not, and she never will be."

Deny, deny, deny. That was all I could do. Denying was easier than confronting Imani's emotions.

By noon, we were in a lecture. I wasn't paying attention, instead scribbling Jasmine's name in purple ink in my notebook, drawing hearts around it like some middle schooler with a crush. 

Shit. I ripped the page out and shoved it into my bag. Treyvon was next to me, head down, sleeping soundly. He always did this after the gym. It was good we sat in the back where the professor couldn't see. At the end of class, I woke him up. He had drooled all over his papers. Sleepy-eyed, he stuffed everything into his bag.

"How's Imani?" Treyvon asked, yawning as he stretched. His yellow Nike jacket rose a bit, showing his navel.

"She's okay."

"Just okay?"

"Treyvon."

"The beta's job is to make sure the alpha is functioning properly. You haven't shifted in days. I'm worried. Damian's worried too."

Damian was Treyvon's wolf, gray with stormy gray eyes to match. Of course, he'd notice I hadn't shifted in days. With Imani behind a wall, we weren't mentally connected. My wolf was emotional about our mate. As we stepped into the hallway, I gripped my bag strap tightly. "I just need time."

Treyvon threw his arm over my shoulder as we walked in sync. "I know."

"She's human. Who's to say she won't reject me?"

Treyvon nodded, listening. "The Moon Goddess doesn't make mistakes with our mates, human or wolf."

He was right. She didn't. But how do you casually tell a human, You're my mate, and we're destined to be together? Or do I do the cringe-worthy thing where the wolf growls and says, Mate! like in all the books? Yeah, no thanks.

"Talk to her."

"Treyvon, no."

"Talking won't hurt. The closer you are to her, the more Imani will be at ease. You can stop the war between you two."

Once again, he was right.

We left the building. The sun shone brilliantly, casting a golden light over everything. The air was warm and fragrant; the trees were covered in bright green buds—it was undeniably spring.

"Okay... just talking... got it..."

But did I really? It felt like there were a million butterflies in my stomach, creeping up my throat, trying to get out. It's just nerves, Dominic. You're an Alpha. Act like one.

Treyvon and I grabbed lunch at Chipotle. We ate outside, mostly on our phones. He checked the school site to see what events were coming up. The main one he was excited about was the 80s-themed party. Last year, there'd been a Caribbean carnival hosted by the exchange students. That was pretty cool. After lunch, we headed to a thrift shop called Retro Style to find something 80s-related.

I was browsing a rack of jeans, searching for anything acid-washed. The thrift store had a distinct odor of dust and disuse that hung heavy in the air. It was filled with forgotten items from a past era, giving it a nostalgic feel. The space was small, and people brushed against each other as they moved around. The bells above the door dinged, and the shop owner greeted new customers. The smell of summer in such a cramped place was suffocating.

Jasmine moved around the store with her friend, looking at clothes. I wanted to gag at how beautiful she was. Grow up, Dominic. 

She looked up from a rack and stared at me. My eyes grew wide, and I quickly looked away, pretending to be interested in the jeans.

I heard her footsteps approaching. And there were those stupid butterflies again.

"Hey, Dominic." Her voice was light, chipper, and I wanted to kiss her.

"Uh, hey."

"How have you been since that terrible nosebleed?" she asked.

"Fine." I tried my hardest to sound dry, hoping she'd take the hint to leave me alone. But she didn't.

"That's good. You look better with more color in your face."

She was annoying.

But did I actually find her annoying?

"I gotta get back to looking for an outfit," I said. 

"Oh, maybe I can help? What are you looking for?"

"Something 80s."

"Oooh, are you going to the 80s party on campus?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"So are me and Aaliyah!  We should go together!"

"I'm going with my friend."

"Well, we can all go together!" she bounced on her toes. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping Treyvon would save me, but he was deep in conversation with Jasmine's friend as they looked through shirts.

Yeah, we should all go together, Treyvon said through the mind link.

Nigga, shut the fuck up. No.

Treyvon laughed. Well, unlike you, I want to be with my mate.

WHAT?! I screamed.

Who would've thought my mate was in this thrift store? I had a feeling when I saw her at the gym.

Congratulations, Beta. Now what? You gonna claim her?

After a few dates, maybe. 

Jasmine tossed a shirt at my face. "Looks like you're lost in thought," she laughed.

"I'm sure your friend needs your help."

"Nah, she's fine," Jasmine said. "Let's find you an outfit."

Okay, she was annoying.

She pulled up Pinterest, scrolling through pictures of 80s fashion to see what we could find. After some searching, Jasmine found a pair of jeans that looked like something a sitcom dad would wear and a Blackhawks hockey jersey.

"Uh, thanks," I mumbled, taking the clothes. She smiled, and my heart did that stupid flutter thing.

"No problem! But seriously, we should go to the party together. My friend seems to be hitting it off with your friend."

We glanced over at them laughing. For a split second, I thought that could be me and Jasmine.

"Okay, fine. But if you're annoying, I'm ditching you."

I wouldn't, though.

Jasmine playfully hit my arm and rolled her eyes. I just stared, taking in every detail of her face. I wanted to see every version of her. In a blink, I could see us together.

Shit.

I stepped away, pretending to look at a rack of vintage magazines. I didn't expect her to follow me, but she did, brushing my arm with her shoulder. A small, pleasant shock.

"I know this is straightforward, but are you into girls?" Jasmine asked.

"Why do you wanna know?"

"Because I just do," she said, her voice sing-songy.

"Yeah. I'm into girls."

Jasmine clapped her hands. "Okay, great! Now, what does a girl have to do to get your number?"

"Not be annoying."

"Hey!" She punched my arm, then quickly apologized when I gave her a look. I laughed to show her I wasn't bothered.

"Here," I said, handing her my phone. "Put your number in."

She added her number and handed the phone back. I called her so she'd have mine.

Jasmine's friend came running up to us with a big smile. She waved, and I gave her a subtle nod. Treyvon followed close behind, wearing that look of love.

"Jasmine, I hope you don't mind, but I'm heading out to hang with Treyvon!" Aaliyah said excitedly, her brown curls bouncing as she talked.

"Oh, girl, go ahead," Jasmine said as her friend handed her the car keys.

"Take care of baby."

Wait. "Treyvon, you can't just leave me without a ride!" I said.

He pointed at Jasmine. "She's your ride."

Fucking great.

"Oh, awesome!" Jasmine said with a grin. "I hope you like Adele."

"Just so you know, Jasmine can't sing. She sounds like a screeching cat," Aaliyah chimed in with a laugh.

"Just admit you're jealous of my God-given talent, Aaliyah," Jasmine shot back playfully.

Jasmine and I walk around the thrift shop browsing for more stuff. Jasmine found an outfit—something Tyra Banks would've worn on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

 In the car, Jasmine cleaned her glasses while I buckled my seatbelt. She laughed nervously, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Is it a bad time to tell you I learned how to drive playing Grand Theft Auto?"

"What?!"

"Joking," she said quickly. "I'm a good driver."

"Your joke wasn't fucking funny."

"It was to me! You should've seen your face." Jasmine laughed again. "So, where are we headed?" she started the car.

"Campus. I've got an evening class."

"Oh? Which one?"

"Sculpture 101."

"Oui, not only is she a fighter, but her hands create masterpieces."

Did she really just say oui?

"Well, my hands need something to do to keep them busy," I muttered.

Even though art wasn't my thing growing up, I found I liked sculpting.

Jasmine pulled out onto the road, but after that hilarious joke, I wasn't sure I trusted her driving. She put on Adele, and while I only knew Rolling in the Deep, Jasmine's friend was right—Jasmine couldn't sing. She was awful. But despite knowing how bad she was, her voice never faltered. Her confidence was unshakable. And I liked that.

"Uh, about your bandana. I bought you another one," I said, cutting through the music.

"Oh, really?" She sounded surprised. "Thanks, but you didn't have to replace it."

"I felt like I had to." I pulled the neatly folded blue bandana out of my bag.

"Awe, that's so sweet," She laughed.