My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot! Chapter 48: Butter... Blueberry Jam

I sit at the breakfast table, the slow sprawl of morning light pouring through the glass walls and pooling around like sothing poured from a pitcher.

My phone rests in my palm, warm from use. The screen glows with Sum’s ssages—an entire ocean of them, each one more desperate than the last, climbing over each other like waves trying to reach a shore that keeps pulling away.

Sum: Ellis, why aren’t you replying? Are you ignoring ? Seriously, Ellis...

My thumb moves slowly. A calm sweep down the screen.

Sum: You know you’re my only friend. How could you leave like this?

I scroll further. Deeper into his spiral.

Sum: Ellis, are you really not going to talk to ?

Sum: Are you really angry at ? I swear I didn’t do anything intentionally. I didn’t know your wifey was such a lightweight.

I pause there.

Such a lightweight.

The mory flickers—uninvited, unwelco.

Silas’s face flushed red. His steps unsteady. His body loose and heavy in my arms as I carried him through the house. The warmth of his breath against my neck. The way his fingers curled into my shirt like they were searching for sothing to hold onto.

And the kiss.

I push the thought away. Bury it beneath sothing harder. Another ssage appears beneath it.

Sum: You haven’t even co to the club. Are you alive, Ellis?

A longer pause this ti. I can almost picture him staring at the screen, holding his breath.

Sum: Don’t tell my friend died.

Sum: No...

I turn off the screen and set the phone aside. Its face goes dark, and the silence rushes back in—clean and untouched, like snow falling over old footprints.

So dramatic.

My gaze drifts. I don’t an for it to. It simply happens—the way a compass turns north, the way water finds its level.

And finds him.

Silas is in the kitchen, making breakfast.

The soft morning light catches the edges of him—his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the quiet concentration on his face. There’s a smile on his lips. Small. Constant. Like it’s always been there, even when I wasn’t looking.

His movents are deliberate, almost gentle. Each gesture carries a quiet certainty, as if he’s done this a thousand tis before.

He looks up.

Our eyes et.

For one breath—just one—sothing passes between us. Sothing that doesn’t ask permission.

I look away first. I grab my phone again. Unlock it. Stare at the screen without actually seeing it.

Why the hell am I staring at him?

Footsteps approach. Soft. asured. He doesn’t rush. Nothing about him ever does.

Silas sets the breakfast on the table—plate by plate, bowl by bowl. Each dish finds its place with quiet precision. Then he places a glass of milk in front of , pale beneath the morning light.

I look at the glass.

Then at him.

Before I can speak—before the protest can even form—he slides a note across the table. The paper glides smoothly against the wood, stopping just before my hand.

I look down.

I’m not thinking of you as a child. Milk is good for health. Even for adults. There’s nothing wrong with drinking it.

Silas sits across from . His hands settle quietly in his lap. No fidgeting. No nervous movents. He simply waits, calm and patient, as if he already knew what I was going to say.

And already answered it.

He spreads butter across a piece of toast—slowly, carefully. Then blueberry jam. The knife glides smoothly over the warm bread before he sets the toast in front of .

I look down at my plate.

Butter. Blueberry jam.

How does he know I eat them together?

The question rises before I can stop it. My voice stays flat. asured. "How do you know?"

Silas blinks. Once. Twice.

I lift my gaze to him. "How do you know I eat butter and blueberry jam together?"

He reaches for the notebook. The pencil. His fingers close around them slowly, carefully, like he’s handling sothing fragile. He writes. Each stroke deliberate.

Then he turns the page toward and slides it across the table.

I just guessed.

My eyes lock onto him. Sharp. Probing. The kind of look that usually makes people squirm, that drags their secrets to the surface whether they want them there or not.

"Is it really a guess?" I lean back slightly. "Or are you stalking again? Like so typical wife?"

He shakes his head quickly.

No.

The movent is almost urgent. Almost childlike. There’s no defensiveness in it—only genuine confusion, as if he doesn’t know what to do with the accusation.

His eyes stay on mine.

I look back down at my toast. Staring at him won’t help. I can’t read his mind. With a quiet sigh, I take a bite.

The flavors bloom on my tongue—butter and blueberry, sweet and salt, familiar in a way that unsettles .

My gaze drifts across the table. The whole breakfast. Eggs golden and soft. Fresh fruit cut into careful shapes. Bread still warm from the oven. Everything arranged with quiet care, like it belongs in a photograph.

"Where did you learn to cook?"

He writes again and slides the note toward .

I taught myself. I like cooking.

I look at him.

Likes cooking.

From his looks. His stillness. The quiet way he moves through a room without announcing himself—like soone who has learned that silence is safer than sound.

His presence settles softly around him, worn smooth by ti. He doesn’t seem like soone who could run a business. Command rooms full of people waiting to tear him apart. Make decisions that shape the lives of thousands.

And yet.

I take a sip of milk. Cold. Clean. It settles in my chest quietly.

Cooking suits him well.

He writes another note.

I glance at his hands.

They’re trembling. Just slightly. Just enough to notice. The pencil shakes faintly between his fingers before he slides the note toward . Hesitantly. Like the paper weighs more than it should.

I look down.

I want to take you sowhere. Can you go with ?

The sa question. The one I saw last night in his notebook while he slept on the cold floor outside my room.

I lift my eyes to his face.

"Where do you want to take ?"

His pencil moves again. The paper whispers softly beneath his hand before he slides the note toward .

It’s a surprise. Please go out with .

I don’t answer imdiately. The silence stretches between us—long enough to feel heavy, long enough to settle into sothing neither of us touches.

Silas doesn’t rush to fill it. He just sits there. Waiting. His eyes on . Patient in that quiet way of his.

I take a tissue. Wipe my hands. Fold the paper neatly before setting it aside.

"Fine. I’ll go."

A pause. I let the words settle.

"But rember—if I get bored, I’m coming back. And I’ll leave you there."

Silas smiles.

Softly.

Slowly.

His whole face lights up—warm and unguarded, like sunlight slipping through clouds after days of rain. The kind of smile that doesn’t ask for anything back. It just exists. Just shines.

I stare at him.

Why is he always so happy?

Like I’ve given him sothing special.