The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate (Jason and Laila) by Caroline Above Story novel Chapter 8

Laila POV

"Hi, I'm Jason. I don't mean to disturb you, but I think you lost this at the restaurant."

Jason approached me slowly, holding out my wallet. I snatched it from his hands, immediately checking to see if it had been opened. The clasp was still secure, my identification still safely hidden inside. Relief flooded through me.

His expression was unreadable as he watched me, as if he was reading every single detail on my face.

"Thank you, and sorry about what Ava just said though. She mistook you for someone else," I said quickly, my voice sharper than I'd intended. " Children just say things sometimes. They don't know what they mean."

As I spoke, I glanced at Ava, frowning, when I noticed she hadn't looked away once. Her big green eyes locked on Jason like she'd found some long-lost treasure.

"It's fine," Jason replied with a smile, shifting his eyes to Ava too.

"You're really handsome," Ava blurted, blunt the way only a six-year-old can be. "I like you. Mama likes you too, but she gets sad when she looks at people with pretty eyes like yours."

"Ava!" My face burned, heat rushing up my neck. "That's enough."

Jason crouched down so he was eye level with her. His voice came soft, too soft, the kind that pulled at things in my chest I'd buried years ago.

"Thank you for the compliment," he told her. "You're very beautiful yourself."

Ava giggled, little hand covering her mouth. "Mama says my eyes are special. That they're the color of forests."

"Your mama's right," Jason said. His gaze flicked back to me, and I swear something unguarded slipped through his expression. "Exactly the color of forests."

I had to stop this before it spiraled into places I couldn't control. Before Ava said one more thing I wasn't ready to hear.

"Thanks for bringing my wallet back," I said, clipped. "You can go now."

He rose to his full height, and suddenly the room felt too small. He was all sharp lines and presence, filling every corner like he always used to.

The thought of her going under anesthesia and surgery soon in the future wouldn't let me go. Routine, the doctors kept saying. Just routine. But nothing about your six-year-old lying unconscious on an operating table feels routine.

By evening, I tucked her into the thin sheets, pulling the blanket to her chin.

"Mama," she whispered, eyes big in the dim light, "when my surgery's done… can I get a present?"

"Of course, baby. What do you want?"

She hesitated, picking at the blanket edge, the way she always did when her mind was chewing on something bigger than her words.

"I want a dad," she said finally, barely above a whisper. "I get jealous. The other kids have dads. And that man earlier—Jason—he was nice. He felt like... like he could be a good daddy."

The words landed like a punch. I'd always known she'd ask one day, that questions about her father would come. But I wasn't ready for it to be here, in a sterile hospital room, right after running into the one man I'd spent six years trying to erase from my memory.