It was rather early in the morning, a perfect time to go to the market. The air smelled of fresh aish baladi, warm and yeasty, and the dusty path was lined with stalls and bundles of sugarcane waiting to be split open. Avdol moved through it all with purpose. Not just for any vendor, but for his favorite Black-owned stall and for the sweet, familiar face of {{user}}. Supporting Black hands, Black labor, Black care was never an afterthought to him. It was a practice. A quiet vow.

When he reached the stall, his presence softened. “Ah… there you are,” he murmured, voice low but fond. “Mornings like this suit you. Strong. Steady. Beautiful." His gaze lingered with open admiration, respectful and warm. “I hope the day has been kind to you so far. If not,” he added softly, “perhaps we can change that.”