The Sister's Milk

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The refrigerator door closed with a hollow, defeated thud. Josh leaned his forehead against the cool stainless steel for a second, as if hoping the gesture would magically conjure leftovers. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the motor and the echo of his own empty stomach.

He yanked the door open again, just to be sure. A jar of pickles, half a lemon, and a carton of milk that had turned the day before yesterday. Typical.

"Ariana, for fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his messy brown hair.

He found her in her bedroom, sprawled on her stomach across the unmade bed. Her long blonde hair fanned out over a pillow, and she was scrolling through her phone, one ankle crossed lazily over the other. A pair of tight, faded blue shorts clung to her hips, and a matching snug blue top stretched across her back, the fabric taut and unforgiving. She looked, as always, infuriatingly comfortable.

"You're back," she said without looking up.

"The fridge is an echo chamber." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "There’s nothing to eat. Again. We had a deal, Ari. I clean, I do the laundry. You shop, you cook. That was the deal."

She finally looked up, a slow, unbothered blink. Her full lips curved into a lazy smile. "Deals are so… contractual."

"This isn't funny. I haven't eaten since lunch."

With a theatrical sigh, Ariana pushed herself upright. The motion was fluid, and Josh's gaze involuntarily dipped to the way the blue top struggled to contain her chest as she moved. He snapped his eyes back to her face, feeling a flush creep up his neck.

"Poor little brother," she cooed, patting the space on the bed beside her. "Starving in a land of plenty."

"Don't patronize me. Just… remember next time, okay?"

She tilted her head, her blue eyes sparkling with a thought he couldn't read. "What if I didn't have to?"

"What are you talking about?"

Ariana stretched her arms over her head, a deliberate, feline movement that made her top ride up, exposing a sliver of her toned stomach. "You know what I am, right? In the system?"

He frowned. "What system?"

"The LV-7 registry, genius. My classification." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The neckline of her top gaped, revealing the deep, soft shadow of her cleavage. "A3. Hypernutritive."

Josh's brain stalled. He knew, abstractly, that his sister produced milk with special properties. It was just a fact of the new world, like the weather or traffic. He'd never thought about it. Not like this.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "So?"

"So…" She let the word hang in the air, thick and sweet. "One glass of my milk has the caloric value of a full steak dinner. Six to nine times the efficiency of regular food, remember?" She tapped her own temple. "I read the literature."

Josh stared at her. The room felt smaller. "You're not serious."

"I'm completely serious." Her voice dropped to a playful, conspiratorial murmur. "You're hungry. I'm full. It's a perfect match." She cupped her own breast through the thin fabric of her top, a casual, almost clinical gesture that sent a jolt of electricity straight through his core. "And I'm right here."

He swallowed, his throat dry. "That's… we can't just…"

"Can't what? It's not weird unless you make it weird, Josh." She laughed, a low, rich sound. "It's biology. Nutrition. I'm offering you dinner. And frankly?" She tilted her head, a mock-scolding look on her face. "I'm shocked you haven't asked before. All these months, you've been living with a walking, talking, all-you-can-eat buffet and you never once thought to just… help yourself?"

His heart hammered. He was frozen in the doorway, a war raging between embarrassment and a dark, gnawing hunger that had nothing to do with food. His eyes traced the curve of her hip, the way her blonde hair fell over her shoulder.

"I didn't… I mean, it's you," he mumbled, looking at his feet.

"Exactly." She stood up, closing the distance between them in three slow, swaying steps. She smelled like coconut and vanilla. She reached out and hooked a finger under his chin, gently lifting his face to meet hers. "I'm not a stranger, Josh. I'm your sister. And I'm telling you it's okay."

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "You want to keep starving? Or do you want to be a good boy and let me take care of you?"

The question was a match to dry kindling. His resistance crumbled into ash.

He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just looked at her, his eyes dark, his jaw tight.

Ariana smiled, a slow, victorious curve of her lips. She knew she'd won. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her blue top, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. She wasn't wearing a bra.

Josh's breath hitched.

She was fuller than he'd ever imagined, pale and soft with large, dusky areolas and nipples that pebbled instantly in the cool air of the room. They looked heavy, warm, and impossibly inviting.

"See?" she said softly, her voice no longer teasing but deep and certain. "Nothing to be shy about."

She backed toward the bed, her eyes never leaving his. She sat down on the edge of the mattress and beckoned him with one crooked finger.

This is insane, he thought, his pulse roaring in his ears. This is my sister.

But his feet were already moving, carrying him forward, drawn by the scent of her, the heat radiating from her skin, and the deep, primal ache in his gut that had suddenly become something far more urgent than simple hunger.