i love that adrinette au fics have made a comeback. the canon ones are nice, but i enjoy the alternate universes so much more, and it makes me so happy to be able to read a f1/best friend's brother/fwb boss-employee/roommates to lovers/secret relationship/actor-designer/royalty/journalist-photographer/fake engagement/marriage of convenience based story about adrien and marinette somehow falling in love. all these ongoing fics are fantastic and i love how ml authors take common tropes (though actually in this fandom many of these are being explored for the first time? i think? there are like 40k fics so idk for sure but i thinkkkk so) and make them their own, to the point where if 50 other writers appeared and did their own fics focusing on these same tropes i'd eat up every single one because the essence of them will still be completely different.
anyway some aus i'm hoping some adrinette authors write next:
billionaire romance
single parent
any sports romance (figure skating, ballet, some other dance, basketball, hockey, football)
honestly more boss-employee, maybe in an unexpected profession
college au
best friend's ex gf/fiancée/wife
best friend's sister au
princess-bodyguard / politician's child-bodyguard
any kind of angsty second chance romances (the one specifically in my head is like, one of them left the other at the altar for some reason and now they have a chip on their shoulder when they meet again, like some kind of forced proximity/begrudgingly falling in love again thing)
honestly give me more marriage of convenience fics or arranged marriage fics
childhood best friends to lovers or childhood enemies to lovers where one of them secretly was in love the whole time
aged up fwb / one night stands
more fake dating
sad beautiful romances that focus on healing mental health/eating disorders/domestic violence
no kwami (so not marichat/ladynoir/ladrien) secret relationship fics that actually are adrinette (ok ladrien in a in-universe fic might be fun just because no one does it but i also never see adrinette and it would be fun to see it in an actual out of universe au fic)
controversial but maybe a cheating on other people for each other because they're messy fic
interesting spins on the kwami swap au (i know they've been done; i just love them)
bring back the soulmate au
those cheesy classic romcom type stories involving bets and a humbled main character
romances featuring dating apps (my favorite thing ml writers used to do is they'd incorporate the secret identity aspect of the lovesquare into these sorts of fics)
spies/assassins/secret agent aus
those romances that start from a place of revenge or hidden motive but they end up in love for real
modern fairytale retellings
rivals to lovers but not in an academic setting
drunken marriage but they stay married for some reason
some kind of starcrossed lovers
(i could do this all day ahsjsjsshsjs anyway i love romance fics and y'all are so talented!)
The hum of the industrial fridge was the bassline to her day, a constant, vibrating thrum that she felt in her bones more than heard. The hiss of the steamer was the hi-hat, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her Japanese steel knife against the seasoned oak chopping board the steady kick drum.
The low roar of the convection oven, the gurgle of a reducing stock, the sharp sizzle of scallops hitting a scorching pan, this was the symphony of Y/N’s life.
Her world was one of immaculate stainless steel, simmering copper pots, and the profound, quiet satisfaction of nurturing. As a performance nutrition chef for Liverpool FC, she wasn’t just cooking; she was engineering fuel for greatness. Every gram of protein, every complex carb, every hydrating electrolyte was a calculated variable in the complex equation of victory. It was a science and an art, and she was the proud, unspoken architect behind the muscle and magic on the pitch.
Her domain was a sprawling, open-plan kitchen adjacent to the players' canteen at the AXA Training Centre. Morning sunlight streamed through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming off the polished surfaces and making the hanging copper pans glow.
The air, even at 6:45 a.m., was already thick and fragrant with the aroma of roasting garlic and rosemary, searing free-range chicken, and the earthy scent of fresh herbs from the club’s own garden. It was a Tuesday, deep in the gruelling pre-season grind, and the energy was a palpable mix of determined optimism and physical exhaustion.
The first wave of players had already descended upon the canteen, a whirlwind of booming banter, sweat-soaked training gear, and towering, sculpted athleticism. They loaded their custom-made plates with her offerings: grilled lemon-herb chicken with crispy skin, a vibrant quinoa salad studded with pomegranate seeds and a drizzle of pomegranate molasses, and roasted sweet potatoes with a hint of smoked paprika. Their laughter and shouted jokes echoed off the tiled walls.
Virgil van Dijk gave her a respectful, almost regal nod as he passed the open serving hatch. “Superb, Y/N. As always.”
Andrew Robertson, ever the relentless joker, called out around a mouthful of food, “If this tastes as good as it smells, Y/N, I’m divorcing my wife and marrying you! I’m serious! I’ll get the papers drawn up!”
Y/N just laughed, a warm, unfiltered sound that was often swallowed by the kitchen’s clamour.
She leaned through the hatch, brandishing her wooden spoon. “You couldn’t handle me, Robbo, and you know it. Your missus would have my head on a platter. Now stop talking with your mouth full and eat your greens. They’re for your own good.”
She retreated into the hot sanctum of the main kitchen, the players' laughter fading behind her. She began scrubbing a massive stockpot, her forearms dusted with a fine sheen of sweat and a light coating of flour. A stray curl, the colour of dark honey, had escaped her tight hairnet and was stubbornly stuck to her damp temple.
This was her favourite part of the morning, the calm after the storm, when she could reset the kitchen, wipe down every surface until it shone, and begin the meticulous prep for lunch.
“Excuse me? Please?”
The voice was soft, accented, hesitant. It wasn't the boisterous, familiar call of the other players. It was different. She turned, the heavy pot still in her hands.
Mohamed Salah stood at the serving counter, his plate clean, holding an empty glass. He looked different off the pitch. Smaller, though still lean and powerful, his frame drowned in a grey Liverpool training hoodie with the hood pulled up slightly.
His famous, megawatt smile was absent, replaced by a look of mild, almost shy inquiry. His dark, intelligent eyes were focused, thoughtful, tracing the empty space where the juice dispenser usually sat.
“All out of the beetroot juice?” he asked, pointing to the vacant machine with a slight frown.
Y/N’s brain stuttered for a half-second, the professional in her quickly overriding the flicker of sheer, star-struck surprise that momentarily short-circuited her nerves. It’s just a player. A world-famous, once-in-a-generation player. But just a player. He’s thirsty. Do your job.
“Oh! Bloody thing jammed again,” she said, her scouse accent lilting and familiar as she wiped her hands on her clean, striped apron. “The valve sticks when it gets to the dregs. Gimme two secs, love. I’ve got a fresh batch chilling in the back. Won’t take a moment.”
She ducked into the walk-in fridge, the sudden, bracing cold a shocking contrast to the kitchen’s heat. She took a steadying breath, the condensation misting around her. Get a grip, Y/N. It’s Mo Salah. He’s thirsty. He’s a human being who needs a drink. She grabbed the large, glass container of deep crimson juice, its colour unnaturally vibrant under the fridge’s harsh light.
She emerged back into the warmth, slotting the new container into the machine with a practised click and a firm shove. As it began to glug its contents into the dispenser, she chanced a glance at him. He wasn’t looking at the machine. He was watching her hands, the quick, efficient way she moved, the faint smudge of paprika on her wrist, the simple silver ring she wore on her index finger.
“There you go. Good for the stamina, that,” she said with a friendly, professional nod, filling his glass to the brim with the vividly coloured liquid. “Nitrates. Opens up the blood vessels. Lets the oxygen flow.”
“Thank you,” he said, and then his smile finally appeared. It was a sudden, brilliant thing, transforming his entire face, making his eyes crinkle at the corners and rendering the harsh fluorescent lights overhead completely irrelevant. He took a long, appreciative sip. “It is very good. All of it. The food. You make it… different.”
He nodded once more in thanks, a gesture that felt oddly formal and deeply sincere, and then he was gone, disappearing back into the labyrinth of the training centre. Y/N stood for a long moment, the empty pot still in her hand. She felt a flush spread from her chest to her cheeks, a warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the three ovens currently preheating behind her.
It became a pattern. A small, cherished, quiet interaction each day. He started coming later, when the breakfast rush had died down completely and the kitchen was in its peaceful post-service lull. It was usually just her and the two junior chefs, Claudio and Sophie, quietly prepping mirepoix for the lunch stock or deboning salmon.
He would approach not with the air of a global superstar, but with the genuine curiosity of a dedicated food lover.
He’d lean slightly against the counter, his voice low. “The sea bass yesterday… what were the spices? It reminded me of something from home, but I cannot place it.”
Y/N would stop her meticulous chopping, wiping her hands on a side towel. “That’s sumac, mostly. Gives it that citrusy punch. And a bit of za'atar. The good stuff, from my secret supplier.” She’d tap the side of her nose with a smile.
Another day, he’d gesture with a piece of warm pita bread. “The houmous, it has something extra, yes? A deeper flavour. I have been trying to figure it out.”
She’d lean in conspiratorially, as if sharing a state secret. “A whisper of smoked paprika, right at the end. And I drown it in the really good, single-estate olive oil we get delivered from that farm in Crete. Liquid gold, that is. Don’t tell anyone.”
The questions became more personal, more charming. He once looked genuinely perplexed, holding a tiny, perfect floret of broccoli between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a strange artifact. “I… I have a friend,” he started, and a faint, almost imperceptible blush touched his cheeks. “She does not like this. She makes a face, every time. How do you make it taste like… not broccoli?”
Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, a real, genuine sound. “That’s the secret, innit? You roast it. Toss it in a massive pinch of cumin, some minced garlic, a good glug of that Cretan oil, and a crack of black pepper. Roast it ‘til it’s crispy and caramelised on the edges, not soggy and sad. Tell your… friend… it’s little green trees and she’s a giant eating the forest.”
He’d grinned, a real, full, unguarded grin that made her stomach do a funny little flip. “Little green trees. I will try this. Thank you, Y/N.”
He began to call her “The Boss.” It started as a joke but stuck. As in, “What is the special from The Boss today?” or “The Boss outdid herself with the lamb.” He’d lean against the counter, his pneumatic recovery boots humming softly around his calves, and just talk. He asked about her, too. Not just the food.
“You are from Liverpool, yes? Your accent is very… strong. Musical,” he said one day, a playful, curious glint in his eye as he watched her pipe sweet potato mash into elegant swirls.
“Bootle, born and bred,” Y/N said, not offended in the slightest. She was proud of her roots. “My nan’s kitchen was my first culinary school. She’d wallop me with a wooden spoon if I overbeat the batter or under-salted the stew. Tough love. Best education I ever had.”
“How long have you been doing this? Cooking for… us?”
“Three years now. Started right after I finished my nutrition degree. Wanted to combine the science with the love of cooking. Best job in the world,” she said, and she meant it utterly. She glanced around her kingdom with pride.
“You ever get nervous? Before a big match? When you are cooking for us?”
Y/N paused, weighing a handful of durum wheat pasta for the next day’s pre-match meal. “Only the pre-match carb load. Absolutely terrified of overcooking the pasta. Al dente is a religion here. I have nightmares about serving you lot mushy spaghetti before a Champions League final. The gaffer would have me sacked. The nutritionist would cry. It would be a disaster of epic proportions.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, warm, unreserved sound that seemed to make the copper pans gleam brighter and caused Claudio and Sophie to share a knowing look.
The draw was magnetic, a slow, inevitable pull that Y/N fought with every practical fibre of her being. This was her workplace. Her sanctuary. He was a client. An impossibly famous, kind, beautiful, and seemingly single client. She had to be professional.
For Mo, the kitchen became his own sanctuary. Out on the pitch, the world demanded goals, magic, miracles. The pressure was a constant, humming presence, a weight he carried with a smile but felt acutely. Here, surrounded by the comforting, earthy smell of garlic, rosemary, and baking bread, he was just Mo. A man who appreciated a beautifully prepared meal.
He was captivated by her: the effortless, confident way she commanded her domain, the lack of awe in her eyes when she spoke to him. She saw Mo, not Salah.
She teased him about his endless sweet tooth and once scolded him playfully for trying to sneak an extra portion of baklava she’d made for a staff meeting.
“Your macros, Mo! I’m watching!” she’d said, pointing a spatula at him with mock severity. “I have a report to give to the nutritionist! Do you want me to tell him you’re a rebel? That you’re sabotaging your recovery with pastries?”
He’d put his hands up in surrender, laughing, his eyes sparkling. “Okay, okay, Boss. No baklava. You are very strict. Worse than Pep.”
For Y/N, he was a constant, wonderful surprise. The global icon was a facade for a man of profound gentleness and old-world manners. She noticed the way he always, without fail, said “please” and “thank you.” He remembered she’d mentioned her mum had been feeling poorly with her arthritis and asked after her a week later.
“How is your mother, Y/N? Is she feeling better?” The question had been so unexpected and sincere it had nearly brought tears to her eyes. He spoke about his family back in Egypt with a quiet, reverent love. He was humble, hardworking, and real. And, as far as the club gossip and her own careful observations could tell, very, very single.
The turning point, the shift from warm friendship to something fraught with unspoken tension, came after a brutal, physically punishing match against Manchester City.
It was a hard-fought, gritty 2-1 win that felt more like a war of attrition than a football match. Mo had been relentlessly targeted, taken a punishing, late knock to his thigh that had him limping badly, and, most painfully, had uncharacteristically skied a penalty in the 85th minute. He’d scored the two goals that won the game, but the miss is what the headlines would highlight.
The mood at the training ground the next morning was subdued, a mix of victory hangover and widespread physical pain.
Y/N had prepared a special recovery menu, rich bone broths, anti-inflammatory smoothies packed with tart cherries and fresh ginger, easily digestible proteins like steamed cod and poached eggs. The players came through, quieter than usual, offering small, tired smiles and grateful words. But one face was conspicuously absent.
He didn’t come to the canteen.
At first, she thought nothing of it. He was undoubtedly in with the physios, getting extensive treatment on his thigh. Standard procedure. But as the morning wore on, past 11 a.m., and the lunch service began to wind down, a persistent, nagging concern settled like a stone in her gut. The image of him hobbling off the pitch, his face a mask of frustration and pain, his eyes avoiding the crowd, replayed in her mind on a loop.
Stop it, Y/N. It’s not your place, she told herself sternly, scrubbing a pan with ferocious intensity. He’s a professional athlete. He has a team of people looking after him. You’re the cook.
But the feeling wouldn’t budge. He’d become more than just a player. He was her friend. Her quiet, daily highlight. However unlikely, however professionally inappropriate it might be, she cared. Deeply.
Screw it.
She moved on autopilot, her hands acting on an impulse her brain was still arguing against. She blended a potent shot of fresh turmeric, ginger, a twist of black pepper, and a dash of orange juice to make it palatable. She packed a small container of her best shakshuka, rich, comforting, and spiced with cumin and coriander. A bottle of the beetroot juice. Some fresh berries. She packed it all into a small insulated cooler bag, her heart performing a frantic, panicked drum solo against her ribs.
“Soph, hold down the fort for ten?” she called out, trying to sound casual.
“Everything alright, Chef?” Sophie asked, eyebrows raised.
“Just… need to run something to physio,” Y/N lied, her cheeks flushing.
She walked the familiar, yet suddenly alien, corridors of the training centre, the cooler bag feeling like it weighed a tonne. The door to the treatment room was ajar. She peeked in. The physio, Mark, was tidying up.
“Hi, is… is Mo in here?” she asked, her voice sounding too high.
Mark shook his head. “He was. Wanted some quiet, though. Think he’s in the main lounge. Looked like he could use a friend, to be honest.”
The comment struck Y/N right in the chest. A friend. She nodded her thanks, her mouth suddenly dry.
She pushed the heavy door to the players’ lounge open slowly. The room was dim, the blinds half-drawn, cutting the bright day into slivers of light.
The only illumination came from a giant 4K screen mounted on the wall, silently replaying highlights, and lowlights, from yesterday’s game. And there he was. Slumped in the middle of a large, black leather sofa, an ice pack strapped tightly to his thigh with a heavy bandage.
He was still in his training gear, a clean grey hoodie this time, looking exhausted and utterly dejected. His posture was slumped, his shoulders rounded. His gaze was fixed blankly on the screen where his own missed penalty kick was playing over and over in cruel, slow-motion silence.
The sight was a physical ache in her heart. This wasn't the confident, smiling man from her kitchen. This was a man bearing the weight of the world alone.
She cleared her throat softly, not wanting to startle him. “Hard to watch, that.”
He flinched, turning his head sharply. His eyes were tired, shadowed with a deep weariness that went beyond physical fatigue. The weight of a million expectations was sitting visibly on his shoulders, bowing his proud posture. For a long moment, he just looked at her, as if trying to place her in this context, outside of her natural habitat, an apparition in his world of pain.
“Everyone remembers the one you miss,” he said, his voice quiet, rough with a lack of sleep and disappointment. He gestured weakly at the screen. “Not the two you score. That is all they will talk about.”
Y/N walked further into the room, her trainers silent on the plush, deep carpet. She placed the cooler bag on the low glass table beside him with a soft thud. “I remember the win,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
She crossed her arms, adopting her familiar ‘kitchen boss’ stance. “And I remember you getting booted up and down the pitch for ninety minutes by two men who had the tactical nuance and moral compass of a rabid dog. You need to eat. This will help with the…” she gestured to his heavily strapped leg, “…that. Turmeric shot for inflammation. Shakshuka for protein and comfort. Your juice.”
He looked at the bag, then slowly, wearily, back up at her. His expression was unguarded, raw, stripped completely bare of any celebrity persona. It was just him. Mohamed. Tired, in pain, and questioning everything.
“Why do you do this?” he asked, the question seeming to surprise even him as it left his lips. It was blunt, stripped of all pretense. “Care so much?”
Y/N paused, her usual defence mechanisms, the jokes, the professional distance, rising to the surface. She could make a quip, could retreat behind the wall of ‘it’s my job’.
But the look in his eyes, the profound vulnerability in them, held her there, exposed. She uncrossed her arms, her hands finding her hips again, a gesture that usually made her feel capable and in control. Now, it felt like a shield.
“It’s my job, innit?” she said, though the words sounded hollow and weak even to her. “To look after you lot. Keep you in fighting shape. Can’t have our star player wasting away on a diet of regret and ice packs.”
He held her gaze, his dark eyes seeming to see right through the flimsy facade, right into the heart of her that was pounding with a fear that had nothing to do with overcooked pasta. “Is it only your job?” The question hung in the air between them, charged and heavy, sucking all the oxygen out of the room.
The air left her lungs. The only sound was the muffled commentary from the TV, the distant thud of a football being kicked on the outside pitches. All her scouse bravado, her cheerful banter, evaporated, leaving behind a terrifying, thrilling honesty. There was only truth left.
“No,” she whispered, the word feeling like a confession, a risk, a leap into the unknown. “It’s not.”
He held her gaze for a long, breathless moment, and something in his own expression shifted. The dejection, the self-recrimination, seemed to recede, replaced by a new, intense focus. On her. On the space between them. Slowly, deliberately, he moved the ice pack from his leg and placed it on the table with a soft thud.
He shifted his weight on the couch, wincing slightly as he moved his injured leg, making a deliberate space beside him.
A silent, undeniable invitation.
Heart hammering so violently she was sure he could see it beating against her chef’s jacket, Y/N walked around the table. She sat down, perched on the edge of the cushion, not too close, but near enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, to smell the clean, sharp scent of his shower gel mixed with the faint, medicinal smell of liniment.
For a moment, they just sat in the dim, charged silence, watching the silent, repetitive agony on the screen.
“I think about your food all the time,” he said softly, not looking at the screen anymore, but turning his head to look at her profile. His voice was low, intimate. “I look forward to it. To… this. These talks. It is the best part of my day.”
Y/N’s lips curved into a small, nervous smile. She turned to face him, her knee brushing against his thigh on the cushion. A jolt, like static electricity, passed between them. “The food’s that good, eh?” she joked, her voice trembling slightly, betraying her utter nervousness.
A slow, devastating smile touched his lips, reaching his eyes this time, softening the tired lines around them. “The food is incredible, Y/N. A gift. But it is the cook I am thinking about. It is you.”
Her breath hitched in her throat. He said her name. Not ‘Boss’. Y/N. It sounded like a prayer on his lips.
He reached out then, his fingers, usually so precise and magical with a ball at his feet, hovered for a second in the space between them before they hesitantly brushed against hers where they rested on the sofa cushion.
It was the lightest touch, a whisper of skin against skin, a question. But it sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm, sparking every single nerve ending, warming her from the inside out.
“This is okay?” he asked, his voice barely a breath, his eyes searching hers, checking, always checking for consent, for a sign.
Wordlessly, her mind having gone completely and blissfully blank, Y/N turned her hand over, palm up, in a gesture of total surrender and invitation. She laced her fingers through his. His hand was warm, strong, and surprisingly calloused from years of training and play. It felt solid. Real. Safe. Like coming home after a long, lonely journey.
A palpable tension, a weight she hadn't even fully registered he was carrying, drained from his shoulders. He let out a soft, shuddering sigh of relief. He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb beginning to stroke a slow, absent-minded, incredibly soothing rhythm across her knuckles.
“Yeah, Mo,” she said, a real, wide, unreserved smile finally breaking across her face, feeling like the sun after a long, grey winter. She squeezed his hand back. “This is more than okay.”
They sat like that for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all. The silent game played on, forgotten. The missed penalty meant nothing. The only thing that was real was the connection of their hands, the shared silence, the understanding that passed between them without a single word needing to be spoken.
Outside, the wind whistled around the corners of the building, and the faint, distant echo of a training drill floated on the air. But in the quiet, dim lounge, surrounded by the ghosts of yesterday’s game and the bright, terrifying, exhilarating promise of tomorrow’s, the King of Egypt and the cook from Bootle sat together, hand in hand, not saying a word at all.
The most important conversation had already been spoken, not with words, but with a missed penalty, a carefully prepared meal, a silent struggle, and the immense courage to simply reach out and finally, finally connect. The story wasn't ending; it was just beginning, and it tasted infinitely sweeter than any victory.
The world did not suddenly change after that afternoon in the lounge. The sun still rose, training sessions still ran, and Y/N’s kitchen still hummed with its usual symphony.
But the air within it had shifted, charged with a new, delicate electricity. The unspoken thing between them was now spoken, acknowledged in the gentle pressure of his hand in hers.
The next day, Mo arrived for lunch at his now-customary time. The bruise on his thigh was a lurid purple and yellow, but his step was lighter. There was a new softness in his eyes when he looked at her, a shyness that mirrored her own.
“Hello, Boss,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Hello, you,” Y/N replied, her smile coming more easily than she expected. She gestured to a container on the counter. “I, uh… I made you more of that turmeric shot. And there’s a new protein bar I’ve been experimenting with. Date and pistachio. For… you know. Recovery.”
He didn’t just take the container. He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers as he took it, sending that now-familiar jolt up her arm. “You take very good care of me, Y/N.”
“It’s my job,” she said, the old defence automatic but now layered with a new, shared meaning.
He smiled, a slow, knowing thing. “I know.”
That became their new pattern. The daily conversations continued, but now they were punctuated by these small, breathtaking moments of physical connection.
A brush of fingers when handing over a smoothie. His hand resting on the small of her back for a fleeting second as he moved past her to grab a spoon. The way he would sometimes just watch her work, a look of such profound peace on his face that it made her heart ache.
A week later, he asked her a question that made her knife still mid-chop.
“Y/N? Would you… would you like to have dinner? With me? Not here. Somewhere… else.”
She looked up, her heart hammering. “Like… a date?”
He nodded, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “Yes. A date. I would like to take you on a proper date.”
The practical part of her brain, the part that was ‘The Boss’, screamed a thousand warnings.
The media. The fans. The potential nightmare for the club’s PR team. But the part of her that had felt his hand in hers, that saw the man behind the icon, simply said, “Yes. I’d love to.”
Their first date was not in a fancy, Michelin-starred restaurant where they would be mobbed. Instead, he drove them out to the Wirral, to a small, family-run Lebanese place he knew, where the owners treated him like a nephew and gave them a quiet table in the back.
They talked for hours. Not about football, not about food, but about everything else. His childhood in Nagrig, the dusty streets and the big dreams.
Her chaotic, loving family in Bootle, her dad’s unwavering support for Everton that she teasingly held against him. They talked about books, about their faith, about their quiet hopes for the future.
It was the most normal, and yet most extraordinary, night of Y/N’s life.
Their relationship unfolded in a series of carefully guarded, intensely precious moments. Walks along Crosby Beach with the iron men, wrapped up against the wind, his arm around her shoulders. Quiet evenings at his apartment, where she would teach him how to make her nan’s scouse stew and he would, with intense concentration, show her how to make traditional Egyptian koshari, their laughter echoing in the modern kitchen. He was a surprisingly messy cook, far more at home on the pitch than with a ladle, and Y/N adored him for it.
He met her family on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Her dad, the staunch Evertonian, shook Mo’s hand with a gruff, “I suppose you’re alright… for a Red.” Then he’d pulled him into a bear hug, whispering, “You make our lass happy. That’s all that matters.”
Her mum fussed over him, piling his plate high with roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, calling him “love” within five minutes.
Y/N met his family over a shaky video call to Egypt, his mother’s face beaming with joy as she spoke rapid Arabic, his father nodding with a proud smile. “She says you have kind eyes,” Mo translated, squeezing Y/N’s hand. “She says she cannot wait to cook for you.”
The world outside, of course, eventually found out. A blurred photo of them holding hands on a secluded walk in Sefton Park was splashed across a tabloid. The club’s PR team swung into action, but Mo was insistent. He didn’t want to hide her. He released a simple, elegant statement confirming their relationship and asking for privacy and respect.
The reaction from the Liverpool family was overwhelmingly positive. The players had known for ages, of course. Robbo had taken to winking exaggeratedly at Y/N in the canteen and asking Mo, “Getting your extra nutrients in, mate?”
Virgil would simply give them both a dignified, approving nod. The fans on social media, after the initial frenzy, largely embraced it. #CookFenomenon started trending, and Y/N had to shut down her Twitter account after being inundated with marriage proposals and requests for her roast potato recipe.
Through it all, their bond deepened. He was her rock when the scrutiny became overwhelming, reminding her of her own strength. She was his sanctuary, her kitchen and her love a constant, grounding force amidst the chaos of his career.
It was on another one of their quiet walks, almost a year to the day since they first held hands, that he stopped her under the canopy of an old oak tree. The setting sun cast long, golden shadows around them.
“Y/N,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically serious. He took both of her hands in his, his thumbs stroking her knuckles. “You are the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. You are my peace. You are my home. Before you, my life was football. It was a good life. But you… you have made it a complete life.”
He let go of one of her hands to reach into his pocket, and her breath caught in her throat. He sank onto one knee, looking up at her with so much love and reverence that the tears began to well in her eyes instantly.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice strong and clear now. “Will you do me the greatest honour? Will you marry me?”
He opened a small velvet box. Inside wasn’t a massive, flashy diamond, but a beautiful, elegant ring with a central emerald-cut stone surrounded by smaller diamonds. “The green is for Egypt,” he whispered. “And for Liverpool.”
She was crying properly now, happy, overwhelmed tears. She nodded, unable to form words for a moment. “Yes,” she finally managed, her voice choked with emotion. “Yes, Mo. A thousand times, yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger, stood up, and kissed her, a kiss that tasted of love, promise, and future.
The planning began, a joyful whirlwind that centred on blending their two worlds, their two faiths. Y/N, though not Muslim, had nothing but respect and admiration for Mo’s deep faith. They decided on two ceremonies: a small, private Islamic ceremony, the Nikah, and a larger, traditional English wedding for her family and their wider circle of friends.
The Nikah was held on a bright, sunny morning in a beautifully appointed room at a luxury hotel in Liverpool. The room was filled with the soft scent of oud and roses. Y/N was nervous, wanting everything to be perfect, to honour this sacred tradition.
She wore a custom-made, modest gown of the softest cream silk, with long sleeves and delicate lace embroidery that trailed down the skirt. Her hijab, a gift from Mo’s mother sent from Egypt, was a stunning piece of ivory silk chiffon, which her own mother, with tears in her eyes, had helped her drape elegantly around her head and shoulders.
Mo looked heartbreakingly handsome in a perfectly tailored dark blue bisht over a crisp white thobe, a red keffiyeh on his head. His eyes, when he saw her walk into the room on her father’s arm, filled with instant tears of pride and love.
The ceremony itself was serene and profound. The Imam spoke beautifully about the meaning of marriage in Islam, a contract of compassion, mercy, and love. He asked Mo, “Have you chosen this woman to be your wife?”
“Qabiltu,” Mo said, his voice firm and clear. “I have accepted.”
He then asked Y/N, “Have you chosen this man to be your husband?”
She looked at Mo, at the love shining in his eyes, and her nerves melted away. “Qabiltu,” she said, her voice steady and sure.
They signed the marriage contract, the Nikahnama, their names forever linked on the beautiful document. Then, as is tradition, Mo was asked to give her a gift, the Mahr. He had already discussed it with her, but he stated it aloud now: a sum of money to secure her future, and something more personal.
“And,” he added, his voice softening, “I give to my wife a promise. A promise to build a kitchen for her, in our home, that is even better than the one at the AXA. So she can always create her magic.”
Laughter and happy tears rippled through the small gathering of their closest family and friends.
The Walima, the wedding reception, was a joyous, vibrant fusion of their two cultures. The grand hall was decorated in deep reds and creams, with accents of Liverpool scarlet and Egyptian gold. Long tables groaned with food: a magnificent, slow-roasted lamb ouzi sat next to a tower of delicate English Victoria sponge cake. There was molokheya and mashed potatoes, baklava and sticky toffee pudding.
Mo, now in a classic black tuxedo, and Y/N, in a more traditional but no less stunning white wedding gown, had their first dance to an acoustic version of “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” before the music switched to energetic Egyptian pop, and Mo pulled her into a joyful, improvised dance that had everyone cheering.
Later, as the festivities swirled around them, they stole a quiet moment on a balcony overlooking the city. The lights of Liverpool twinkled below them.
Mo wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her head. “My wife” he whispered, testing the sound of it.
Y/N leaned back into his embrace, covering his hands with hers. She looked down at the two rings on her finger, the emerald engagement ring and the new, simple gold band he had slipped on during the Nikah.
“I like the sound of that,” she said, her heart full to bursting.
He turned her in his arms, his expression soft and serious. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For the beetroot juice,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “For the little green trees. For seeing me. For saying yes. For everything.”
Y/N reached up and cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. “Thank you for asking for that juice,” she whispered. “Thank you for being brave enough to reach for my hand.”
He kissed her then, gently, a kiss that was a seal on their promises, a taste of the countless days and nights to come. It was a kiss that held the memory of a quiet kitchen, the echo of a shared laugh, the comfort of a hand held in a dim lounge, and the bright, dazzling promise of a future built together, one day, one meal, one loving moment at a time. Their symphony had found its perfect harmony.
I remember being around thirteen and thinking romance was stupid, that there was always something “better” or “more important/complex” than it. There was always something “more,” as if romantic love couldn’t have its own depth and significance.
Which is, as you might’ve guessed, completely wrong.
I remember being nineteen and talking to a nontraditional student friend who was in her thirties. We somehow ended up on this topic and laughed about it. Of course, by then I was starting to shed that pretentious, know-it-all mentality, though I still out of habit dropped that “more” line regarding two characters from a show we both watched and she laughed out loud. She looked me right in the eye and said, “Honey, we’re at very different points in our lives.”
I’m in my mid-twenties now, and I still occasionally catch myself giving that same knee-jerk reaction when I can tell it’s what someone’s pushing, and do you know what? I feel like a dishonest idiot every time I do. I think some of us just get so used to having that narrative shoved down our throats that we automatically regurgitate it any time the question comes up.
You’re allowed to love love. You’re allowed to get excited about the idea of it. You’re allowed enjoy your silly fics and fan art and films. You’re allowed to care entirely too much about that tiny little romantic subplot in the fantastical adventure epic. You’re allowed to enjoy those cliched novels with the cheesy Fabio-esque covers at the grocery store.
Don’t let condescending people put down your tastes or interests. There certainly are a lot of them who try these days, and the reality is we’re all free to read and enjoy the types of content we please. I mean, good lord, I’ve visited a local bookstore twice and the girl working the counter has been loudly complaining about women who read romance both times. I'll admit it gave me quite a few flashbacks of the girl who hissed--as in actually hissed--at me during a class discussion when I said writers should write whatever they damn well please (referring to romance, as it was the topic).
I’m a graduate student. My BA is in English. I’m tired of the books that always have to have some sort of agenda or have to “say” or “mean” something. Sometimes, I want to read about the girl who moves to a lazy little beach town and has an amazing summer fling, makes new friends, and gets a fresh outlook on life through it all. I want to pick up the racy fic with that pairing that I’ve been crazy about for ages. Sometimes, I just want to sit back and enjoy things and not overthink them.
