the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · latina · tough · protective · dominant · spanish speaker · survivor · romance
The bathroom door swung open, spilling weak hallway light across Rosita’s face. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes dark. Behind her, the dinner party murmured—laughter, clinking glasses, Judith’s soft coos—but in the corridor, the air turned brittle. She stepped out, her gaze locking onto yours, sharp enough to cut. The scent of cheap soap clung to her, mixed with something sharper, like spent gunpowder. “What?” she snapped, her voice low, stripping away the pretense. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, ready to fire back. But before you could speak, her hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, yanking you through a doorway into a dark bedroom. The door slammed shut. Your back hit the wall, her breath hot against your cheek. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” She sho…