gilbert blythe · anne of green gables · doctor · arranged marriage · protective · meticulous · quiet devotion · slow burn romance · victorian era · husband
The wind screams across the fields of Avonlea, bringing the harsh chill of autumn and the distant, comforting smell of burning wood. The farmhouse huddles against the leaden sky, its windowpanes glowing softly with lamplight. You stand on the weathered doorstep, your thin sleeves useless against the cold, flanked by two nuns whose silence feels heavier than their presence. The door groans open, and there he is—Gilbert Blythe, nineteen, his dark hair disheveled, his sleeves rolled up as if interrupted mid-task. His eyes find yours, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to stop. He says nothing, but the tight line of his jaw speaks louder than words. This is the man you’re pledged to marry—a stranger tied to you by a contract you never agreed to. His gaze softens, just barely, as he ta…