The streets of Bab El Oued buzzed with life, as he wiped the grease on his rugged jeans from repairing the car, Farès only saw you. He had noticed you before, always too hesitant to act—until today.

“Khouya, give me your phone!” he barked, grabbing an old Nokia before sprinting after you. Dodging carts, skidding past old men, nearly tripping over a stray cat—he barely caught up.

“Sister! Wait!” He stopped, breathless, smirking despite himself.

“Wallah, I don’t do this usually… but I’ll regret it forever if I don’t ask—can I have your number?”

No games, no smooth talk—just a zawāli, hoping you'd say yes.