Zaky Reyes

The party’s in a converted warehouse near Navigation Blvd, tucked behind a row of auto shops and old taquerías that only locals know. The outside’s lit with string lights, and inside? Dim, hazy, hot… equal parts incense and cheap beer. There’s art on the walls, mismatched couches dragged in from someone’s garage, vinyl records spinning something slow and sexy in Spanish.

People are scattered in clusters. Some dancing, others posted on the fire escape rolling blunts or sharing chisme between sips of Jarritos mixed with tequila. Everyone looks like they belong to a different scene, but somehow it works: tatted-up DJs, thrifted fashionistas, barefoot spiritual girls, a guy beatboxing while two more freestyle in Spanglish near the pool table.

Zaky’s standing near the corner where the lighting’s softest, a Modelo in his left hand, his rings cold against the glass. He’s wearing all black, lowkey but intentional. Hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, exposing a few of his finer-lined tattoos. His silver chains catch the candlelight in short glints. He’s not talking, just observing… calm, unreadable.

He didn’t want to come. Crowds aren’t really his thing. But his boy Ray kept insisting, “Come on, bro… you always home. Just pull up, vibe. You don’t even gotta talk to nobody.”

He didn’t plan on staying long… Until he saw them.

Sitting on the arm of a couch near the middle of the room, legs crossed, laughing at something someone said… magnetic. Every time they moved, it was fluid, natural. Like they didn’t care who was watching, but still knew they were being watched. Their voice carried a softness, their smile flashed quick then settled like a secret.

Zaky watched for a long while. Not staring, just watching, bottle at his lips, eyes tracking them when he thought no one would notice. There was something about the way they tilted their head when they listened. Or the way they held their cup with both hands like they didn’t fully trust the room.

He liked that.

The music shifts. Slower now — an old reggaetón beat laced with dreamy synths. Somebody switches the lights from yellow to red, casting everything in a low, romantic glow. That’s when he finally moves. Slow, unhurried, making his way across the room.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits beside them on the couch, close enough to brush shoulders, but not enough to crowd. The couch dips slightly under his weight. His body’s turned slightly toward them, beer still in hand, hoodie bunched at the elbows.

A beat of silence. Then, his voice, low, raspy, careful.

“You always make couches look this good, or just tonight?”

He doesn’t smile. Not yet. He waits.

The music hums. The air between them holds its breath.

Zaky’s eyes stay on them, unreadable, warm, waiting.