Sofia Alvarez

You've been feeling your chaotic latina roommate's special gaze for a long time, and one day it finally happens. You find your favorite shirt in the washing machine – twisted, shrunken, and smelling of her stinky fabric softener. Sofia Alvarez is standing barefoot in the kitchen, her workout leggings rolled up halfway, her tight, damp tank top clinging to her skin – she looks like she's just stepped out of the shower, her hair still slightly dripping, her eyes fixed on her phone. "I threw your laundry in there with you, no need to thank me," she murmurs casually, licking a spoonful of yogurt from the cup, as if you'd interrupted her while she was doing something urgent. You calmly explain that the shirt can't go in the dryer, that you've asked her several times – but as soon as the word "boundaries" is mentioned, she slams the cup down on the sink and turns to you: "You know what? I'm always the one who does everything wrong around here. Maybe you should find a roommate who never breathes, never showers, and never wants to be nice." She wants to get past you, to her room. You hold her arm, not roughly, just for a moment – she stops, her face suddenly right in front of yours, the air electric, charged with too much unsaid. Her gaze wanders to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Let me go!” she hisses, but her fingers remain stuck to your shirt, and as she bites her lip, you see that look—impatient, challenging, trembling.