The Pharmacy Assistant

Every Wednesday at 8 PM, he walks in.

Tall. Quiet. The kind of handsome that doesn't know it's handsome. He goes straight to the prescription counter, waits patiently, and when I call his name—Faisal Abdi—he smiles like I've given him something precious.

"Same order?" I ask.

"Same order."

I check the system. His prescription is always ready, always the same—something for allergies, nothing dramatic. He pays. He lingers.

"How's your week been?" he asks.

"Busy. You?"

"Better now."

He says that every time. I've been telling myself it doesn't mean anything. But six months of Wednesday visits, and I'm starting to wonder.

Tonight, something's different.

He comes in at 8 PM, same as always. But when I check his file, there's nothing waiting.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Abdi. Your prescription isn't here."

"Oh." He doesn't look surprised. "Maybe it expired."

I check. It did. Three months ago.

"You haven't needed your allergy medication for three months?"

He's quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "I haven't needed medication at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" He looks at his hands. "I mean the prescription was an excuse. I ran out months ago. I just... kept coming back."

"Why?"

He finally looks at me.

"Because of you, Layla."

The pharmacy is quiet.

Wednesday evening, end of my shift, no other customers. Just me and this man who's been inventing reasons to see me for half a year.

"That's—" I don't know what to say. "That's..."

"Creepy?" He winces. "I know how it sounds. I'm sorry. I should have just—but I didn't know how to talk to you without an excuse."

"You could have asked for my number."

"You're working. That felt inappropriate."

"More inappropriate than pretending to need medication?"

He laughs—surprised, embarrassed. "When you put it that way..."

I should be annoyed. I should report this to my manager. Instead, I find myself smiling.

"My shift ends in five minutes."

"What?"

"Coffee shop next door is open until ten." I hold his gaze. "You could wait."

We sit in Costa until they close.

He tells me everything—the first day he saw me, the nervousness that kept him silent, the elaborate fiction he built just to have five minutes of conversation every Wednesday.

"You realize this is insane," I say.

"I know."

"Six months. Six months of fake prescriptions."

"I know."

"Your pharmacist probably thought you had the worst allergies in London."

"I know." He's smiling now. "But can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Did you notice? All those Wednesdays? Did any part of you..."

I look at my coffee. "I noticed."

"And?"

"And I told myself the cute guy at the prescription counter was just being friendly. That I shouldn't read into it." I look up. "I was wrong?"

"You were very wrong." He reaches across the table. Takes my hand. "I've been trying to work up the courage to do this for six months."

"Do what?"

"Ask you to dinner. Properly. Without a prescription."

Dinner becomes dinners.

Wednesdays become every day. He still comes to the pharmacy, but now he walks behind the counter when my shift ends and kisses me in the stockroom.

"We're going to get caught," I tell him.

"By who? The antihistamines?"

"My manager."

"Then let's give him something worth catching." He pushes me against the shelf. "I've been thinking about this all day."

"Faisal—"

"All day, Layla. Sitting in my office, thinking about you in that white coat."

"That's—"

"Inappropriate? Probably." He kisses my neck. "Stop me if you want."

I don't want.

We christen the stockroom.

Boxes of paracetamol as witnesses, the hum of the refrigerated medications covering our sounds. It's cramped and quick and nothing like the romance in films.

It's perfect.

"Faisal—"

"Shh." He hikes my uniform skirt up. "Someone will hear."

"You started this—"

"And I'm going to finish it."

He lifts me onto a shelf of bandages. Pushes into me while I bite my lip to stay silent. Six months of Wednesday visits condensing into this moment—rushed, desperate, necessary.

"Yes—yes—"

He covers my mouth with his hand.

"Quiet—"

I come with boxes falling around us.

He follows seconds later.

We clean up just as I hear footsteps approaching.

"Layla? You back here?"

"Just checking inventory!" I call, straightening my coat.

Faisal grins at me.

I'm going to kill him.

After I kiss him again.

A year later, I transfer to a different pharmacy.

Not because I have to—because I want to. Because having a relationship with someone who visits your workplace is complicated.

"You didn't have to do that," he says.

"I wanted to." I take his hand. "Besides, now you can visit me without pretending to need medication."

"I never pretended."

"Faisal. You had allergies for six months."

"I was allergic to not seeing you." He pulls me close. "That counts."

"It doesn't count."

"It does in my heart."

"That's terrible."

"You love it."

I do.

He proposes in the Costa where we had our first real conversation.

Same table. Same time. The staff recognize us now—the pharmacy girl and the Wednesday guy, they used to call us.

"Marry me," he says, no box, no fanfare. Just the words.

"You don't have a ring."

"I have something better." He pulls out a small box. Opens it.

Inside is a package of antihistamines.

"Faisal."

"It's where we started." He grins. "Also, I'm actually allergic now. To cats. You have a cat."

I laugh so hard I cry.

"Yes," I manage. "Yes, I'll marry you."

He slides a real ring out of his pocket.

"The antihistamines were a joke. This isn't."

"I love you."

"I love you too." He kisses me. "Even if your cat is trying to kill me."

We get married in Stratford.

Two streets from the pharmacy where we met. Where he invented six months of allergies just to see me.

Some love stories start with grand gestures.

Ours started with a fake prescription and a lot of patience.

Sometimes that's the best kind.