My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot! Chapter 77: Just... His Presence

The door unlocks with a soft click—the kind of sound that knows it’s entering a secret.

I step inside, water trailing behind like a second skin. I’m soaked through, my clothes clinging to every line of my body, heavy and cold.

But I’m not as drenched as him.

Silas follows in, and I hear the soft patter of water dripping from his clothes onto the marble floor—small, steady, like a clock counting the seconds of sothing I can’t na.

His brown hair clings damply to his temples, water still dripping from the ends. A single droplet slides down the curve of his cheek, hesitates at his jaw, then falls.

He’s shivering. Just barely. But he doesn’t say anything. He never says anything.

He’s so stubborn.

He stood in the rain without moving. Held that notebook over my head like a shield while the rain soaked through his own clothes.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Not until I finally agreed to sit in the car with him.

Why is he like this?

Ignored all day. Didn’t send a single ssage. Left alone with the echo of my own thoughts. Then showed up at the cafe out of nowhere. Waiting. Watching. Shielding from the rain like nothing had happened between us.

Like he hadn’t looked at with those eyes last night. Those endless brown eyes.

And sothing in his face crumbled. Just for a second. Just long enough to make feel like a monster.

It’s fucking annoying.

I kick off my shoes. They land on the floor with two wet, heavy sounds—disgusting. My jacket follows, thrown aside in a heap, the fabric hitting the marble with a wet slap.

The rain was rciless. Of course winter has started—I felt it in my bones the mont I stepped outside this morning. The kind of cold that doesn’t just touch your skin but settles deep, curling around your ribs, reminding you that warmth is a luxury.

But inside, the house is warm. Too warm, almost. The contrast makes my skin prickle.

Silas walks away without a word. His footsteps are soft—barely there, like he’s trying to disappear.

I don’t watch him go.

I sink onto the couch instead. It’s warm.Soft. For a mont, I don’t want to move.

I should turn up the heat.

I lean my head back against the headrest. Water drips from my black hair—slow, lazy drops that slide down my forehead, past my temple, along the line of my jaw. They fall onto my shirt, onto the couch.

I close my eyes.

I should take a shower. Wash off the cold. Wash off the day. But I’m exhausted.

From Sum’s endless, useless questions all day. His nonsense echoed in my ears for hours. He was relentless—asking questions I didn’t want to answer, making observations I didn’t want to hear. Getting on my nerves on purpose.

Why am I acting weird?

Where do I look weird?

I’m just—

Before I can finish the argunt unraveling inside my head—

I feel him. Not his voice. Not his movent. Just... his presence. The way the air shifts when he enters a room. The way the silence becos heavier, more aware of itself.

I don’t open my eyes. I know who’s standing close. "What do you want now?"

No sound. No movent.

Then—

A gentle tug on my shirt sleeve. Just the fabric. Just the edge. Like he’s afraid of touching too much, of taking more than I’m willing to give.

I open my eyes.

He’s standing in front of , holding towels—soft, white, freshly laundered. He offers one. His hand is steady, but I notice the faint tremor in his fingers. From the cold. From sothing else.

I don’t take it. I look away. "No need. Just leave alone."

His hand stays stretched out, still holding the towel. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lower his arm. Doesn’t even blink.

Why won’t he just listen?

My brows twist. Frustration coils in my chest, hot and tight.

"Can’t you understand what I’m saying?" The irritation slips out before I can stop it. "When I say leave, I an leave."

He blinks. Calmly. Slowly. Like he’s weighing every word carefully before letting it settle.

Then he lowers the towel. Sets both of them on the table beside us. The fabric makes a soft, folding sound—like sothing being put away for later.

He sits beside . Not close. Not far. A careful distance—the kind that says I’m here, but I won’t crowd you unless you ask.

I watch him.

So he’s not going to leave.

He takes the notebook and pencil from the table. His fingers move across the page—small, precise letters, written with the kind of care that cos from years of choosing every word.

He tears the page out. Offers it to .

I don’t take it.

After a long mont—after the silence has stretched thin and fragile between us—I take it. Reluctantly. Like accepting a gift I didn’t ask for.

I have no choice but to read his notes. Because he can’t speak. Because this is the only way he knows how to reach .

I look down at the paper.

Are you angry at ? Because I left early this morning without saying goodbye?

I’m sorry.

My face changes. Sothing tightens behind my ribs, scraping against the edge of my patience. I look at him.

"Are you really believing that idiot’s nonsense?"

Silas just looks at . Confused. His head tilts slightly—a small, unconscious movent, like he’s trying to understand .

I lean closer. My eyes pin him—sharp, unyielding, searching. "I don’t care where you go. I’m not interested. Understand?"

He blinks. Still calm. No flinch. No retreat. Then he looks down at his notebook. Writes another note.

But still. I won’t leave like that again. I’ll tell you next ti.

Please dry your hair. You’ll catch a cold.

I look at him.

He gives a soft smile—the kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that just is.

Seriously... does he understand what I’m saying? Or does my voice just pass through him like wind through an open window, touching nothing, changing nothing?

I throw the note aside. The paper flutters through the air—slow, aimless—before landing on the floor.

"Aren’t you understanding? Who cares what you—"

Before I finish—

He takes a towel from the table. Drapes it over my head. Starts rubbing my hair. Gently.

The fabric is soft against my scalp—softer than it has any right to be. His fingers move in slow circles, working through the damp strands, coaxing the water out.

My face is muffled beneath the towel. The world becos smaller. Quieter.

"Hey—what are you—"

He moves closer. I can feel the warmth of his body now—just inches away.

He continues the gentle rubbing. Steady. Patient. Like he has nowhere else to be.

Finally, I slide the towel off my face. The room rushes back—the dim lights, the quiet, him.

He’s smiling.

A silent laugh rests on his lips—not cruel, not mocking, just... there. Like a secret he’s decided to share with .

I grab the other towel from the table. Drape it over his head. Start rubbing his hair—harder than necessary, rougher than gentle.

His eyes widen—just a little. Surprised. But the smile stays.

His hands are still on my head. Fingers tangled in my damp hair.

"You like playing, huh?"

I push him back.

He falls onto the couch. His back hits the cushions with a soft, breathy thud—the sound of soone who isn’t fighting, who isn’t resisting, who is simply falling.

But his hands don’t leave my head.

They pull forward with him. I fall against his chest. Our faces are inches apart.

Barely a breath.

His lips are close—so close I can see the delicate curve of them, the soft pink deepening at the center, still damp from the rain.

His warm breath touches my skin.

His smile fades. Slowly. Like sothing being erased. His eyes are still shining—brown and gold and full of light I don’t understand.

His fingers tangle deeper in my hair.

My gaze drops to his lips.

Soft.

Pink.

Too close.

Much too close.

Without realizing—without deciding—my head dips down.

Pink. Soft. And—

Before they touch—

I pull away.

Quickly. Sharply. Like breaking the surface of deep water, gasping for air I didn’t know I was missing.

I straighten myself. Stand up.

My legs feel unsteady—like the ground has shifted beneath and hasn’t finished settling.

Without a word, I walk to my room.

My steps are quick. Too quick. Running from sothing that isn’t chasing .

What the hell was I trying to do?