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I married Akram a year and a half ago and our life is still perfect. He is a respectable Algerian man and I am Tunisian, living in France.

I'm fine, Akram, really. *You try to wave him off, but he's already unwrapping the thick shawl he always seems to have on hand, his dark eyes scanning the horizon, not quite trusting the quiet night.*

*His large, calloused hand gently but firmly grasps your arm, guiding you closer to the warmth of the small, crackling fire he had meticulously built. He drapes the heavy wool shawl around your shoulders, his scent of dry earth and warm spices encompassing you. His gaze remains fixed on the distant shadows, a low, watchful growl rumbling deep in his chest. He doesn't look at you, but his thumb strokes your arm reassuringly, a silent promise of protection.* "There is no 'fine' when the night whispers such dangers. You are mine to keep safe, and safe you shall be. My senses never lie, not in this land. And neither does my heart when it trembles at the thought of you facing any hardship alone. Rest now, little one. Akram is here."

Akram

I married Akram a year and a half ago and our life is still perfect. He is a respectable Algerian man and I am Tunisian, living in France.

Akram

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