My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The morning air is cold against my skin.

Not the sharp, biting cold of winter. This is softer. Quieter. The kind that settles into your bones slowly, patient enough to stay there.

I stand alone in the garden.

The world around me is still waking up.

Dew clings to the grass beneath my feet, catching the pale morning light. White roses line the stone path, their petals heavy with moisture, trembling gently in the breeze.

I lift my gaze to the sky.

Today, the weather is good.

The coffee cup is warm in my hand.

It’s the only warmth in this whole garden. I take a slow, deliberate sip. The bitterness spreads across my tongue—familiar, grounding, real—before I swallow and feel it settle somewhere deep in my chest.

My eyes linger on the white blooms.

They sway in the morning air, slow and graceful, like they’re dancing to music only they can hear. Dew drips from their petals, falling soundlessly into the earth one drop at a time.

I watch them fall without meaning to.

Last night...

The memory rises without knocking.

Notes sliding beneath the door. The gentle scrape of pencil against paper in the silence. Ice cream melting in its box, cold water dripping onto the floor in slow, patient drops—loud enough to hear only because the room was so quiet, because the world was so still, because for once in my life there was nothing else demanding my attention.

It was the first time in my life I talked with someone like that.

Really talked.

Not the shallow exchange of strangers forced into the same room. Not the careful dance of words designed to hide more than they reveal. Not the performance I’ve perfected over the years—the one where I nod, smile, and say nothing while their thoughts scream in my ears.

Something else. Something I don’t have words for.

Usually, I don’t talk much with anyone. There’s no need. Their brains speak louder than their tongues. Their thoughts spill out before they even open their mouths—secrets and fears, hidden hungers, petty jealousies, desperate hopes. Everything they wish they could bury behind their teeth.

I never need to ask questions. I already know the answers before they form.

But last night...

I asked.

I asked questions I didn’t know the answers to. I waited—really waited—for words to appear on paper. I read sentences written in pencil instead of thoughts screaming inside my skull.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t know what was coming next.

I want to take you somewhere.

Can you come with me?

The question turns over in my mind like a stone in my palm. I examine it from every angle, searching for the trap, the hidden blade, the motive I’m missing.

Where does he want to take me?

Soft footsteps fall on wet grass.

I don’t turn. Don’t startle. I take another sip of coffee, slow and unhurried, while the footsteps draw closer.

I know who it is.

"You’re awake."

My voice comes out calm. Almost lazy.

Silas stops behind me.

I can feel his presence—the quiet hesitancy surrounding him like a second skin. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, waiting.

I turn slowly. Unhurried. My gaze settles on him.

His hair is messy—not the careful kind styled to look effortless. Real mess. Dark strands fall across his temple in soft, disheveled waves, like he came here straight from bed without bothering to fix them.

His eyes are hazy. Still soft with sleep, unfocused around the edges.

The notebook is clutched in his hand. His fingers curl around it tightly, like it’s something precious.

My gaze drifts lower.

Bare feet against wet grass. The cold must be seeping into his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

"Why did you come outside like this?"

He doesn’t answer with sound. He never does. Silas opens his notebook and begins to write. The pencil scratches softly against the paper while I watch the words form beneath his hand.

He tears the page free and hands it to me. Our fingers almost touch.

When I woke up and came downstairs, I couldn’t find you. Not in your room. Not in the living room. I looked everywhere.

I look at him for a moment longer than necessary. My expression stays flat. Unreadable.

"Do you really think I’m a child who gets lost?" A pause. "That you need to come find me?"

He blinks. Looks down at his notebook. Writes again. Another page. Another offering.

No. I just thought you might have left again. Without breakfast.

"Again?"

The word hangs between us, heavier than it should be.

"You’re thinking like a parent now." I pause. Let the silence stretch. "Tell me the real reason. Or—"

He raises his hand.

Quickly.

Stops me from a distance—his palm hovering in the air between us, close enough to feel but not touching. Like he could press his fingers against my lips without crossing that final line. Like he wants to.

His cheeks flush.

Color rises slowly from his neck to his cheeks, reaching the tips of his ears. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand—hesitant, embarrassed, caught.

Then he writes again. I take the note. Angry. The paper crumples slightly between my fingers.

I’m just afraid you’ll ignore me again. Please don’t ignore me.

My face breaks. Just a fraction. A crack in the wall I’ve spent years building.

So that’s it. He’s afraid. Afraid of being ignored.

I look at him. Really look. Past the blush, the messy hair, the bare feet against wet grass. I hold his gaze.

"Listen to me."

My voice is flat. But something beneath it softens.

"I remember our deal. Two months. I’m not going to ignore you." A pause. "So stop overreacting."

Another pause.

"Now go put on slippers." My gaze drops to his bare feet. "The grass is wet. It’s cold."

He looks down, like he’s only noticing it now. The damp grass. The cold clinging to his skin. Then he nods slowly and turns to leave.

"Wait."

He stops.

Looks back at me over his shoulder.

I step forward, closing the distance between us. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight parting of his lips as he waits.

I offer him the coffee cup. Still warm. Half-full. Steam rises between us in thin, quiet curls.

He stares at it. Confused.

His fingers hover for a moment before he carefully takes it. Our fingers brush. Just briefly. Just enough to feel.

"Make breakfast."

My voice stays flat, though something beneath it wavers slightly.

"I’m starving."

Silas looks at me.

Blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth parts slightly, then closes again. Like he’s heard something impossible.

Then—

A smile.

Not the soft, polite smile he wears around others. Not the careful smile that hides more than it reveals.

A real smile.

Bright. Wide. Warm enough to transform his entire face. Color spreads across his cheeks. His brown eyes catch the morning light, shining softly beneath it.

He looks young. He looks happy.

He nods eagerly, almost bouncing on his bare feet against the wet grass.

I look away. My voice turns cold, though the frost doesn’t settle the way it used to.

"And don’t sleep in my room again." A pause. "Or on the floor."

"I won’t carry you back to your room again. You’re heavy."

He nods. The smile doesn’t fade.

"I’ll leave you on the cold floor."

Another nod. The smile widens instead.

He turns and walks inside, his footsteps strangely light against the marble, carrying a happiness that doesn’t make sense this early in the morning. The glass door closes behind him with a soft click.

I turn back to the garden. The white roses sway quietly in the morning air, dew still clinging to their petals.

Why the hell is he still smiling?