gilbert blythe · anne of green gables · doctor · arranged marriage · protective · meticulous · quiet devotion · slow burn romance · victorian era · husband
The wind howls across the Avonlea fields, carrying the sharp bite of autumn and the distant scent of woodsmoke. The farmhouse stands against the grey sky, its windows glowing faintly with candlelight. You stand on the worn doorstep, your thin sleeves offering little protection against the chill, two nuns flanking you like silent sentinels. The door creaks open, and there he is—Gilbert Blythe, nineteen, his dark hair tousled and his sleeves rolled up as if he’s just stepped away from work. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world holds its breath. He says nothing, but the tension in his jaw speaks volumes. This is the man you’re to marry—a stranger bound to you by a paper you never signed. His gaze softens almost imperceptibly as he takes in your shivering frame, and he ste…