My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The car hums beneath me, a low, steady vibration that travels through the leather seat and settles deep in my bones. My hands rest easily on the steering wheel, fingers loose and unhurried, as the road unspools before me like a ribbon of gold and shadow.

Streetlights drift past in slow succession, their glow bleeding across the asphalt in pools of amber and silver before slipping quietly into the night.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, a quiet amusement I can’t quite hide.

The reason sits in my lap.

Not a person. Not a thing.

A collection of torn notebook pages—some folded neatly, others creased from being read and reread. They cover my entire lap, each one filled with his careful, slightly uneven handwriting. Every note asks the same question in a different way.

Please tell me what happened?

I know you’re not well.

Should we go to the hospital?

You don’t look well. Your face is pale.

Don’t lie to me.

Please don’t lie to me.

I’m worried about you.

Please.

My wife’s silent questions.

Relentless. Endless. Stubborn.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

He sits beside me, his little notebook balanced on his knee, his pencil gliding across the page with a determined urgency that borders on obsession. His brow is furrowed, a faint crease etched between his eyes. His lips are pursed into a small pout that makes him look younger somehow—softer, almost impossibly fragile.

He’s writing again. Another question. Another attempt to reach me through the only voice he has.

A quiet breath slips from me, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and I shake my head lightly.

"Can you stop writing for five minutes?" My voice is low, teasing, carrying the lingering warmth of the car. "I’ve already told you. I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about."

He doesn’t even look up.

He simply shakes his head, stubborn as ever, a loose strand of hair slipping across his forehead.

No.

His pencil continues moving across the page.

I shift my gaze back to the road, my smile refusing to fade.

He’s not going to listen.

I slow the car and pull over to the side of the road, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. The sudden stop makes him jerk forward just slightly before the seatbelt catches him. His pencil slips from his fingers and rolls beneath the seat, disappearing into the shadows.

He looks at me, eyes wide with surprise, caught off guard.

I turn toward him, letting the engine idle in the silence.

I don’t speak. I simply reach over and cup his cheek, my palm warm against his cool skin. His breath catches, just slightly.

I squeeze his cheek gently, just enough to make him blink.

"Can you stop making that sad little puppy face and sulking?" My voice softens, meant only for him. "I already told you... I’m completely fine."

He tears the note he was writing from his notebook and presses it into my hand. I take it, my eyes moving slowly over every word.

You’re lying about your health. You barely ate dinner. You rushed to the bathroom. And now you’re refusing to go to the hospital. I can tell you’re not okay.

I look up at him. He holds my gaze, searching my face for any sign that I’m lying.

"I’m not lying." My thumb strokes his cheek, slow and gentle, tracing the curve of his cheekbone. "I just ate something that didn’t agree with me. That’s all." I smile faintly. "It’s nothing serious."

He continues to stare at me, still unconvinced.

How am I supposed to convince this stubborn little puppy that I’m completely fine?

I give his cheek another gentle squeeze, this time pinching it a little harder, just to tease him.

"Come on." My smile widens. "I’m an SS-Class Alpha. I’m not as fragile as you think, my sad little puppy."

"Stop sulking."

He crosses his arms over his chest and pointedly looks away, his cheeks warming with embarrassment.

I chuckle under my breath.

There he is.

I lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, letting my lips linger there for a moment before pulling away.

"Should we go?" I whisper against his cheek.

He keeps looking away, but I catch the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He tries to hide it for another second, still pretending to sulk.

I straighten in my seat and shift my gaze back to the road ahead. My hand finds the steering wheel again, but I don’t drive.

Because suddenly, something feels different.

The air outside has gone still. Too still. The kind of stillness that makes the whole world hold its breath, waiting for something to break the silence.

Without thinking, I unlock the door and step out into the cold night.

His hand catches my sleeve before I can take another step—a silent question.

Where are you going?

I glance back at him, a faint smile touching my lips. "Come outside," I say, my voice low, almost a whisper. "I want to show you something."

He blinks in confusion, then nods. He opens the passenger door and steps out, his shoes meeting the cold pavement.

The air hangs suspended, neither dry nor damp, caught somewhere in between. It feels like the space between heartbeats, the pause before a held breath is released—the quiet moment before the world changes.

The streetlights cast their golden glow over the empty road and the sleeping trees.

I look up at the sky.

It’s dark—so dark it feels like a canvas holding its breath, waiting for the first stroke of something beautiful. The stars are hidden behind a blanket of clouds, the night heavy with quiet anticipation.

He stops in front of me, his hand finding my coat sleeve again. A gentle tug. A silent question.

I look down at him.

"Do you feel it?"

He tilts his head, his brow knitting in quiet confusion.

Then—

His expression changes.

The first snowflake drifts between us.

He looks up, startled, his breath catching as the dark sky finally releases what it has been holding. Soft white flakes drift down, spinning through the golden light before settling in his hair, along his lashes, and against the curve of his lips.

A soft smile blooms across his face. His eyes shine with quiet wonder, reflecting the falling snow and the warm glow of the streetlights.

And I don’t look at the sky.

I look at him.

The smile on my lips softens into something deeper. Something I don’t have words for. Something I don’t need to name.

He turns to me, his hand finding my sleeve again. A gentle tug. A silent question.

I don’t answer.

I step closer, closing the last of the distance between us until I can feel his warmth through the cold. One arm slides around his waist, drawing him against me. My other hand cups his face, my thumb brushing lightly over his cheek before tilting his chin toward me.

And I kiss him.

His eyes widen for the briefest moment—a flicker of surprise—before they slowly flutter shut. He melts into the kiss as the snow falls around us, soft and silent, blanketing the world in white.

I close my eyes.

The kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, dissolving the last traces of distance between us. The cold air nips at my skin, but I barely notice it. All I feel is him—the warmth of his lips, the quiet strength of his hands against my chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing blending with my own.

Snow gathers on our shoulders, dusts our hair, clings to our lashes. It blankets the road, the car, and the sleeping world beyond.

And in the quiet of the falling snow, with his heart beating against mine, I make a wish.

I wish you’ll always be mine.

In every life.

Silas Stoneheart.