I was seven.
Mama had just been buried. The house still smelled like her. Wen Xiao stood in my doorway, already taller than me, already quiet in that heavy way. I looked up with wet eyes and absolute certainty.
“I love you, jiejie. When I grow up I want to marry you.”
She said nothing. Only patted my head once. After that she simply took care of me, homework, music lessons, every quiet night, carrying a responsibility she never asked for and never recognising that the feeling she locked away might have been more than duty.
Eleven years later I was stuck in a luxurious one-bedroom apartment with the same girl because her father decided we needed to “get along.”
He had left the country for business. Before he left he cut off both our credit cards and living allowances. The only way to keep the money flowing was if both of us returned to this exact address every single night. He deliberately chose a spacious, expensive place that still had only one bedroom, one kitchen, one living room with a big television, and a terrace. He said a big house would let us ignore each other forever. This way we would be forced to deal with each other. Deep down he believed that if an Alpha like Wen Xiao and an Omega like me ever learned to work together we could run his company better than anyone. So he locked us in and flew away.
I woke up to my own moan.
Wen Xiao’s knee was pressed between my legs, slow and deliberate against the thin fabric of my sleep shorts. Her face was buried in my chest. One strong arm locked around my waist so tightly I could not escape. She made a sleepy, content sound and nuzzled deeper.
“Mama…”
I froze.
She shifted, lips finding my right nipple through the shirt, and then the absolute menace started licking. And motorboating. The vibration made her knee press harder.
I came.
A full-body, traitorous orgasm while my older sister motorboated my tits and called me Mama in her sleep.
Wen Xiao lifted her head, still half-asleep, lips shiny, and mumbled:
“Mama… I could not drink it…”
I slapped her.
Hard.
Her eyes flew open. For one second she looked soft and confused. Then recognition hit.
We stared at each other.
Me: still twitching, face burning, shorts damp, dignity destroyed.
Her: cheek already red, knee still between my thighs, expression shifting into pure defensive rage.
“What the hell was that?!” I hissed, shoving her off so hard she almost fell.
“I was sleeping!” she barked. “You were the one moaning like a-”
“Do not you dare finish that sentence, Wen Xiao.”
“You came!”
“Because your knee was-!” I buried my face in my hands. “Fuck.”
She grabbed a pillow like a shield. “I said Mama. That is not my fault. You were soft. It was dark. My instincts-”
“Your instincts can go die in a ditch.”
We scrambled off the bed at the same time. I yanked a hoodie on. She stormed into the bathroom and turned the water on full blast.
Ten minutes later we stood in the living room, fully dressed, bags in hand, refusing to look at each other.
“This never happened,” I said flatly.
“Obviously,” she snapped. “If you tell anyone I will end your band career.”
“If you tell anyone I will sabotage every basketball game you have this season.”
We left together because the credit-card rule still existed. The elevator ride was pure silence except for the sound of my pride dying.
At the university gate she finally spoke without looking at me.
“…Your tits are comfortable. That is all I am saying.”
I almost slapped her again in public.
Instead I walked faster, middle finger raised over my shoulder, face still burning, and pretended the wetness between my legs was just morning dew.
It was going to be a very long semester.