The Pharmacist's Prescription
"Maryam runs the local pharmacy where everyone brings their problems, not just their prescriptions. When new GP Dr. Aamir starts referring difficult cases to her, their collaboration becomes complicated."
The Pharmacist's Prescription
"Your patients are driving me insane."
Maryam slammed her hands on the pharmacy counter as Dr. Aamir Iqbal walked in. The new GP at the practice next door had been referring his most complicated cases to her for three months.
"Which one this time?" He had the nerve to look amused.
"Mrs. Begum. Who you told could take her heart medication with grapefruit juice."
"I did not—"
"You didn't tell her she couldn't." She rubbed her temples. "I just spent forty minutes explaining drug interactions while she cried about missing her morning juice."
"And that's exactly why I send them to you." He leaned on the counter. "You're the best pharmacist in Bradford. You explain things I don't have time for."
"That's not a compliment, it's an excuse for laziness."
"It's the truth." His voice softened. "You care, Maryam. That's rare in this business."
Despite her frustration, they developed a rhythm.
Aamir would send over complex patients; Maryam would counsel them properly. He'd drop by after clinic to discuss cases. Discuss cases became sharing meals. Sharing meals became something she refused to name.
"You're single," he observed one evening. "Why?"
"That's invasive."
"I'm a doctor. Invasive is my specialty."
"Tauba." She threw a pen at him. "I'm divorced. Didn't work out. The end."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a kameena who thought a pharmacist wasn't a real job." She shrugged. "Better alone than disrespected."
"That's not the only option." His eyes held hers. "There's also: better with someone who sees your worth."
"Is that a clinical recommendation, Doctor Sahib?"
"It's a personal one."
The first kiss happened after a joint emergency—a patient crisis that required both their expertise, working together until 3am.
"We're a good team," Aamir said as the ambulance left.
"In emergencies."
"In everything." He stepped closer. "Maryam, I've been trying to be professional. But I think about you constantly. Your competence, your compassion, your—"
"If you say my eyes, I'll hit you."
"I was going to say your laugh." He cupped her face. "May I kiss you?"
"Haan."
They made it to his office—closest private space.
Aamir lifted her onto the examination table, and she laughed despite herself.
"This is very inappropriate."
"Extremely." He kissed her neck. "Want to stop?"
"Absolutely not."
He made love to her with clinical precision—learning what made her gasp, adjusting technique, cataloguing responses. It should have been cold. Instead, it was devastating.
"Meri jaan," he breathed, moving inside her. "I've wanted this since you yelled at me about grapefruit juice."
"That was three months ago!"
"Three months of excellent restraint." He thrust deeper. "Now there's none left."
She came apart in his arms, and he followed, and afterward they lay tangled on the narrow table.
"We can't tell the patients," Maryam said.
"Obviously."
"Or the staff."
"For now." He kissed her forehead. "But eventually, Maryam, I want everyone to know. You're not my secret—you're my future."
"That's very presumptuous."
"I'm a doctor. Confidence comes with the degree."
She laughed and kissed him. It felt like the best medicine.
The practice eventually merged—Iqbal & Associates Medical Centre, with an attached pharmacy run by Mrs. Maryam Iqbal.
Best partnership in Bradford, professional and personal.
The patients finally stopped asking why they had such good chemistry.