My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The car hums into silence.

Not the sharp silence of something ending, but the slow, deliberate kind—the kind that settles into the bones after a long night.

The rain hasn’t stopped. It never really does this time of year in Crystal Country. It clings to the windshield in delicate threads, catching the amber glow of the streetlights before sliding away in quiet rivers. Each droplet traces its own path, unhurried, as if the rain itself is in no rush to arrive anywhere.

I kill the engine.

For a moment, the world holds its breath.

Then I step out.

The rain meets me immediately. Not harsh. Not heavy. Just cold enough to remind me that winter has already settled into this country. The droplets cling to my hair first, then my shoulders, then the fabric of my shirt—darkening the cotton in small, spreading circles.

Behind me, I hear the soft click of Silas’s door opening. His footsteps follow mine, quieter than the rain itself, softer than the night pressing in from all sides.

I don’t need to look back to know his head is bowed.

His eyes are fixed somewhere on the ground—a spot that won’t look back at him.

He’s been like this all evening.

Through dinner, he ate in silence. No notes slid across the table. No questions written in that careful, looping handwriting. No soft smiles when he thought I wasn’t watching.

Just the soft clink of his fork against the plate, the whisper of fabric when he shifted in his seat, and the weight of his gaze—always there, always waiting—whenever he thought my attention had wandered elsewhere.

But every time I looked—every time my eyes found his—he looked away.

Like he’d been caught doing something forbidden. Like my gaze burned.

The door unlocks with a soft click—a sound so familiar now that I barely notice it.

I step inside.

The house greets me like it’s been holding its breath too. The automatic lights glow to life as I walk. Warmth seeps into my damp clothes.

I cross the living room. The rain taps against the glass wall in a rhythm that feels almost intentional, almost like words in a language no one knows.

I let myself fall onto the couch.

The cushions embrace me—familiar, comfortable. My shirt is still damp from the rain, clinging to my chest in places, to my arms. But I don’t move to change it. I don’t have the energy. I don’t have the will.

I lean my head back against the cushion. Close my eyes. Press my fingers against my temple.

Behind my eyelids, the world is dark.

Quiet.

Then I hear his footsteps. Still moving. Still soft. Still not stopping.

My eyes open slowly. I glance at him through half-lidded eyes.

He’s walking toward the stairs.

His back is still bare beneath the jacket I threw over his shoulders hours ago. His head is lowered, his gaze fixed on the steps ahead of him as though they might disappear if he looks away.

My voice is quiet when I speak.

"Get me a glass of water."

His steps stop.

He turns. Looks at me.

For a moment—just a moment—our eyes meet. His gaze lingers on mine for a second, then drops away again.

He nods slowly. Then disappears into the kitchen.

I shift my gaze to the ceiling. The golden lights glow above me—soft, warm, unwavering. They cast the room in shades of amber and honey, turning the ordinary into something almost sacred.

I take a slow breath.

What’s with him tonight?

Is he still upset about the scolding?

Outside, the rain continues its quiet conversation with the glass, patient and endless.

He returns.

A glass of water in his hand. He offers it to me without meeting my eyes—just reaches out, holds it there, and waits.

I take it.

The warmth seeps through the glass into my palm. Not hot. Not cold. Just gentle. Just right.

I sip once. Twice. The water is smooth, clean, tasting faintly of something. Then I set it down on the table beside me—a soft click that echoes in the quiet.

He turns to leave.

"Where are you going?"

He stops again. Turns again.

There it is. That look.

It’s annoying.

He takes out his notebook and pencil. His pencil moves across the page, the soft scratch of graphite breaking the silence. He tears the page free and hands it to me.

Going to change. Do you need anything?

I look at him.

The soft light falls across his cheekbones, catches the pearl necklace still resting against his collarbone.

"Who told you to change?"

He blinks.

Confusion ripples across his features—slight, subtle, there and gone.

A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. Slow. Deliberate.

I shift on the couch, draping my arms along the back of it. The note hangs loosely between my fingers, already forgotten.

"Take it off."

His eyes widen.

For a moment, he just stares at me—like he’s certain he misheard. Like his ears are playing tricks on him.

"Didn’t you wear this to impress me?"

He bites his lower lip. Then he nods.

Slowly. Barely.

"Then take it off." I nod toward the jacket draped over his shoulders—my jacket.

"Let me see. Properly. How you look in this backless shirt."

He doesn’t move.

He just stands there, frozen. His throat moves as he swallows. The sound seems too loud in the silence.

His cheeks begin to burn. First pink. Then deeper. The color spreading slowly across his skin.

My eyes stay on him.

Every flicker of hesitation. Every small, trembling moment that passes between us.

His expressions...

Cute.

Slowly—so slowly it feels like he’s moving through water—his hands rise.

He slips the jacket from his shoulders.

The fabric falls away, revealing the pale stretch of skin beneath. He drapes it over the arm of the couch with careful movements, lingering just a little too long as his fingers smooth the wrinkles away.

Buying himself time.

His back is bare now.

Exposed to the warm golden light.

Exposed to my eyes.