My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

Chapter 105: This Mute Beta Wife Has Really Done Something To My Head....

The kitchen still holds the warmth of what almost was—the ghost of garlic and herbs lingering in the air, the memory of sizzling oil now faded into silence. Beneath it, sharper and more insistent, lingers the smell of something burned. Something ruined.

I lean against the counter. The front of my shirt is still damp, cool against my skin where the spilled water soaked through.

My gaze drifts to the stove.

The evidence is impossible to miss.

The meat has blackened to a crisp, fused to the pan in a permanent, smoking embrace. Soup has spilled across the stovetop in shades of amber and gold, creeping toward the edge in slow, defeated rivulets.

All of it destroyed.

Because we kissed until the kitchen started burning.

A strange thought—one that should bother me but doesn’t. Not really.

My fingers drift to my lips. I trace them slowly, absently. The memory of his mouth against mine still lingers there.

The way he trembled. The way his breath caught. The way he looked at me.

What happened to me?

The question drifts through my mind, unanswered.

One moment I was watching him—his soft smile, the way his brown hair kept falling across his forehead as he stirred whatever was in that pan.

The next, my arm was around his waist, pulling him against me, and his lips were under mine.

All because I thought about Everic hurting him.

Ridiculous.

My fingers slide from my lips to my hair. I rake a hand through it, pushing it back from my forehead. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.

This mute Beta wife has really done something to my head.

I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

But somehow—strangely, impossibly—I don’t hate it. This mess. This unraveling. This feeling of losing control and not caring that I’ve lost it.

A dangerous thing.

I hear him before I see him—soft footsteps, hesitant, like he’s still deciding whether to come closer.

I look up.

He walks toward me. He’s changed now—out of the ruined shirt, into something clean and soft. In his hands, he carries a fresh shirt for me, a jacket folded over his arm.

His face is small and closed, his expression that of a child who’s lost something precious and doesn’t know how to ask for it back.

Little sad puppy.

The thought comes with a softness I don’t examine.

He stops in front of me. Hesitates. Then offers me the shirt without meeting my eyes.

I don’t take it.

Instead, I reach for his hand. My fingers close around his wrist—gentle but firm—and I pull him closer until the space between us disappears.

"What’s wrong?"

His eyes meet mine. For a moment, his expression shifts—a flicker of surprise, caught off guard by the question.

Then he looks away and reaches toward the table where his notebook waits. His free hand finds it instinctively, as if the notebook can answer for him.

I catch that one too.

Both of his hands now, held in mine.

"Let me guess...."

A smirk finds my lips. Slow. Teasing.

"You’re sad because dinner burned?"

He nods. Quick. Too quick.

His lower lip pushes out in a small, unconscious pout—barely there, but enough to notice.

A laugh escapes me. Soft. Genuine.

He frowns—a fleeting shadow—and looks away again. The stubborn set of his jaw tells me exactly how seriously he’s taking this.

I close what little space remains between us.

His body hesitates for a moment, offering the smallest resistance before yielding. He’s close enough now that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my collarbone.

"Then how do you want to punish me?"

His eyes meet mine.

Nervous. Still upset. But something softer lingers there too—something that makes my voice drop without permission.

"Do you want me to eat this burned meat?"

He shakes his head immediately.

No.

His eyes widen slightly, as if the suggestion alone offends him.

I tilt my head, studying him. The flush creeping up his neck. The way his lashes catch the light, long and brown and trembling.

"Or..."

My voice drops to a whisper.

"Do you want me to kiss you again?"

He freezes.

Completely.

His eyes widen—those brown eyes, gold-flecked and endless. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

My smile spreads, slow and dangerous.

"You’re not moving." My voice is a murmur, a secret meant only for him. "So I’ll take that as a yes."

I lean in, closing the distance until my lips are only a breath away from his—

He steps back.

Quick. Flustered.

His hands slip from mine—gentle but certain—and he presses the shirt and jacket against my chest like a shield.

Then he turns his face away.

But not before I catch the flush spreading across his cheek, the tips of his ears burning red, the uneven rise and fall of his shoulders.

My smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it softens.

Playful.

I take the shirt from him. The moment my fingers brush the fabric, he turns around so quickly it almost looks like he’s fleeing.

A laugh threatens to escape me.

I unbutton the damp shirt I’m wearing, letting it fall open, and my eyes stay on his back—on the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself perfectly still, the way his hands curl into loose fists at his sides.

"Why are you looking away?" I ask, slipping the damp fabric from my shoulders. "Are you shy?"

He shakes his head immediately. A sharp, jerky movement. His brown hair sways with it.

I laugh softly. The sound is warm, unexpected.

I slide the fresh shirt on. The fabric is clean and soft against my skin. I button it slowly, taking my time. Only when I’m finished do some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Then the jacket. I pull it over my shoulders, straighten the collar, and adjust the cuffs.

Every movement deliberate.

Every second stretched.

I step forward.

Take his hand. And start walking.

Silas follows reluctantly, soft and obedient behind me. My fingers intertwine with his, holding on without giving him a chance to pull away.

He looks at me, startled. His free hand tugs at my sleeve—light, questioning, a touch that asks without words.

I don’t look back.

But I hear the question anyway.

"I’m taking you somewhere nice for dinner."

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, catching the way the light pools in the hollow of his throat, the way his lips part slightly in surprise.

"So you can stop sulking like a little puppy."

For a moment, he just stares at me.

Then the smallest smile touches his lips. It’s barely there—a whisper, a suggestion—but it transforms his whole face.

He doesn’t let go of my hand.