My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

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.

I stand.

He watches me come closer. His fists clench around his notebook and pencil—knuckles pale, chest rising and falling beneath that silk shirt.

He looks at me. Then down. Then at me again. Confused. Uncertain.

I don’t stop walking.

He steps back.

I step closer.

He steps back again.

I step closer again.

His back meets the wall. Soft. Final.

The sound of his shoulder blades pressing against the painted surface—a small, quiet surrender.

I raise my hand. Press it against the wall beside his head. Caging him.

Not touching him. Just... there.

"Turn around."

His eyes widen. His lips part—just a fraction, just enough. The light catches the moisture on his lower lip, makes it gleam.

"What’s wrong?" My voice is low, almost a murmur, nearly lost beneath the sound of the rain. "Didn’t you wear this for me? Now why are you shy?"

He blinks. Swallows again. His throat moves beneath that pale skin, beneath the pearls resting against his collarbone.

Then slowly—so slowly—he turns his back to me.

I let my eyes travel.

The pale curve of his shoulders. Delicate. Almost fragile. Like something carved from marble by hands that knew exactly what they were doing.

The straight line of his spine—elegant, unwavering, a brushstroke drawn down the center of his back.

The way the silk pools just below his waist, leaving everything above exposed to the warm air.

To my gaze.

The smirk fades from my lips.

Beautiful.

I didn’t mean to think it. The word arrives uninvited and settles somewhere in my chest before I can stop it.

My hand rises.

My fingers hover just above his skin.

Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to notice the faint tremor running through his body. Close enough to touch.

I stop.

My gaze shifts to his face.

His eyes are closed. His lips are pressed together—thin, tight, holding something back that desperately wants to escape.

His cheeks are crimson now, burning as though he’s caught fire from the inside. The color has spread to his ears, his neck, and the exposed curve of his shoulder.

A teasing smile tugs at my lips.

I lean closer.

My chin brushes his shoulder—a whisper of contact. Barely there. My lips find the curve of his ear.

"Why are you so nervous?"

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just stays still—breath held, body tense, waiting for something he doesn’t understand.

"Listen to me carefully."

My voice is barely a whisper now—warm against his skin, soft against the delicate shell of his ear.

"From now on... you’re not going to ask Sum for suggestions. Or Everic."

A pause.

"Understand?"

He nods. A small movement. Barely there. But I feel it—the brush of his hair against my cheek, the shift of his shoulders beneath my gaze.

My fingers find his back.

Just the lightest touch.

The barest brush of skin against skin—my fingertips against the smooth expanse of his spine.

A shiver runs through him.

His whole body trembles—a ripple that starts at his shoulders and travels downward, through his arms, through his legs, through every part of him that’s pressed against the wall.

The notebook and pencil slip from his fingers and fall to the floor with a soft clatter that seems too loud in the silence.

From just that.

"And if you want to know what I like..." I whisper again. "Or what I dislike..."

I let the words hang between us.

"Ask me. Directly."

He nods again.

His eyes are still closed. The redness has deepened, spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. I can feel the heat coming off him—warm, alive, fragile.

"I don’t like this kind of style."

A pause.

"But..."

My eyes trace the line of his spine. The curve of his waist. The way the light settles across his skin.

"You look good in it."

His breath quickens. I can hear it—the soft, uneven inhale, the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast.

His eyes squeeze tighter—like a child waiting for something to be over, like someone bracing for impact that never comes.

My hand rises.

My index finger traces up his spine.

Slowly. Gently. Like following a path I’ve walked before. I feel each vertebra beneath my fingertip—a quiet geography, a secret map.

I stop at the nape of his neck.

"You look beautiful."

I reach for his ear.

My fingers trace the shell slowly—the delicate curve, the soft skin behind it, the place where his pulse beats close to the surface.

"Should we go to bed?"

His eyes snap open.

He looks at me.

His face is fully red now—the red of embarrassment, of surprise, of something he can’t name and doesn’t know how to feel. His lips part, close, part again. No sound comes out.

I press my lips together.

I try to hold it in. I really do.

But the laugh escapes anyway.

I step back, unable to stop, my shoulders shaking, my hand pressing against my stomach. The sound fills the room—warm, unguarded, real. It echoes off the walls, bounces off the ceiling, fills every corner of the silence.

Silas turns to stare at me.

His cheeks are burning red. His eyes are wide. Unblinking. He looks like a deer caught in headlights—frozen, confused, not sure whether to run or stay.

His lower lip pushes out—a pout now, not sadness but something else.

"Look at your face." I wipe the corner of my eye. "You look like a tomato."

He blinks. His pout deepens. He looks away—angry, embarrassed, still red as sunrise.

My laughter gradually fades.

The warmth of it lingers in my chest as I reach for the jacket draped over the couch and settle it over his shoulders once more.

He looks at me. His expression softens—just a little, just enough.

The smile still lingers on my lips. I don’t try to hide it anymore.

"You don’t need to wear anything to impress someone if you’re not comfortable in it."

I take another step back. Turn toward the couch. Sit down. Calm.

"Go change. And make me a strong coffee."

His hand rises. He holds the jacket closed around his shoulders—a small, protective gesture.

He looks at me. One long, searching look. Like he’s trying to understand something I haven’t said.

Then he nods. Slowly. Gently.

His footsteps are soft as he walks toward his room, each one quieter than the last.

I take a deep breath. The smile still won’t leave.

He’s really childish. Believing anyone who talks to him. Trusting people so easily.

Like a little kid.

No wonder teasing him is so entertaining.

I should do it more.

Without realizing it, my hand reaches up and rubs the back of my neck.

Why is it warm?

I can feel my pheromones rising in the air—spreading, reaching, searching for something I don’t want to name.

Wait...

Why are they—

I lean back heavily against the couch. My head drops against the cushion with a dull thud. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Ellis.

What the hell are you doing?