Chris

Steve Harrington x Henderson fem!reader

Part 1

Warnings: Angsty, traumatized Steve, slow burn, mutual wanting, making out, emotional vulnerability, fear of loss, difficult choice, mention of danger and violence, Steve can't stay away from reader. Summary: As Hawkins grows more dangerous and the end feels closer than ever, you and Steve find yourselves drawn together in ways neither of you can explain. With Dustin talking about college and his future beyond you, you begin to realize it’s time to let your little brother live his own life and to finally acknowledge what you want. Late-night preparations turn into something deeper, and a moment of shared vulnerability becomes impossible to ignore. Now, you and Steve must face the truth: either create distance to protect yourselves, or choose each other, knowing that loving someone in Hawkins means living with constant fear.

The closeness doesn’t happen all at once.

It sneaks up on you in ways that feel impossible to undo.

Dustin talks about college now, real college, not the vague idea of it. He scrolls through pamphlets at the kitchen table, rattling off majors and dorm options like he isn’t the same kid who once needed Steve to fix his hair.

You listen. You smile. You nod.

And somewhere between his excitement and his certainty, you realize something quietly devastating and beautiful at the same time:

He doesn’t need you the way he used to.

Not every day. Not for everything.

And that means you’re allowed to want something of your own.

Steve notices before you say it out loud.

It starts with preparations for crawls, missions that feel more frequent now, more dangerous. At first, it’s practical.

“We live close,” Steve says, like it explains why he’s at your door again.

Then: “Your car’s still acting up?”

Then nothing at all. No excuses. No explanations.

You just show up at each other’s places with weapons to sharpen, bandages to restock, a quiet understanding settling between you like a shared language. You move around each other easily, instinctively. Everyone notices.

Robin raises her eyebrows. Nancy gives you a look. Dustin grins like he’s been waiting years.

Everyone has accepted it.

Everyone except the two of you.

The crawl that night is brutal. long. exhausting, too close for comfort. By the time it’s over, your hands are shaking, and Steve’s knuckles are split open again. Sleep is out of the question on nights like that. You end up at his house without discussing it.

Steve’s living room is dim, cluttered with equipment and half-packed crates. You sit on the floor together, sorting gear, the quiet heavy but not uncomfortable.

“You did good tonight,” you tell him, wrapping his hand.

Steve watches you like he always does lately, like he’s memorizing something. “So did you.”

You don’t look up when you say it. “Dustin’s been talking about college.”

Steve stills.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “He’s ready. He doesn’t need me hovering anymore.”

Steve swallows. “You don’t sound sad.”

“I’m not,” you admit. “Just… scared of what comes next.”

The vulnerability sits between you, raw and unguarded.

Steve exhales, leaning back against the couch. “I’ve been scared for a long time.”

You look at him then.

“Of what?”

“Losing people,” he says. “Of getting close and watching it all fall apart anyway.”

Something in his voice cracks, not loudly, but enough for you.

You reach for him without thinking. Instinctively. Natural.

Steve can't hold back; his hand comes up to your waist like he’s afraid you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you there. His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“I don’t want to keep pretending this isn’t happening,” he says quietly.

Neither do you.

Before you can answer, he kisses you, not carefully, but urgently. Desperate. Like he’s holding onto you with everything he has. His hands grip you like proof, like grounding, like you’re real and here and not something he’s imagined in the spaces between danger.

You kiss him back just as hard.

The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the way he pulls you closer, the way his breath shakes like he’s been holding it in for months.

When you finally pull apart, foreheads touching, reality crashes back in.

“This can’t be just a moment,” you say softly.

Steve nods, eyes dark and honest. “I know.”

You think of crawls. Of blood. Of close calls. Of loving someone who walks straight into danger.

“So what do we do?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, steady and sure: “We either step back now… or we choose each other and live with the fear.”

You meet his gaze, heart pounding.

Distance would hurt.

But loving Steve, really loving him, means choosing him even when it’s terrifying.

And for the first time, you don’t look away.

Steve Harrington x Henderson fem!reader

Warning: Fluff/comfort, a bit of angst, both Steve and reader are traumatized, lightly suggestive, soft Steve, talks of future and kids, yearner Steve, reader isn't ready to let go. Summary: After the final battle leaves Hawkins quiet and scarred, Steve Harrington and the reader make a mutual decision to leave town for a while and recover at his parents’ long-abandoned beach house in California. What begins as a temporary escape turns into a sun-soaked summer of healing, emotional honesty, and growing intimacy. Between ocean air, late-night conversations, and lingering kisses, Steve confronts his desire for a future beyond Hawkins, one that includes love, stability, and children. At the same time, the reader wrestles with her own ties to home, family, and responsibility. Caught between staying and leaving, the two must decide whether this love is just for the summer or something meant to last. (He is so fine)

The world doesn’t end with a bang.

It ends with quiet.

That’s what surprises you the most after Hawkins finally stopped bleeding, after the gates are closed, after the sirens and screams and funeral casseroles. You expect something louder. A sign. A moment where the sky cracks open and says Congratulations, you survived.

Instead, it’s just silence.

And Steve Harrington is sitting beside you on the hood of his car, staring at a town neither of you recognizes anymore.

Hawkins looks smaller now. Like something you outgrew without realizing it.

“You ever notice,” Steve says slowly, voice rough in that way it gets when he’s thinking too hard, “how this place only ever lets us breathe once it’s done hurting us?”

You hum in agreement, leaning your head against his shoulder. He smells like sun and soap and something familiar that settles your nerves. Safety, maybe. 

You’re exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. So is he. Everyone is. But Steve has been hovering ever since it ended, never more than an arm’s length away, as if he lets go, something might drag you both back under.

“You don’t have to stay,” he adds, quieter. “Here, I mean.”

You turn to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, jaw tight, hands clasped together like he’s bracing himself for impact.

“I know,” you say. “But I want to. My mom… Dustin…for now”

Steve nods. Of course you do. You’ve always been like that, rooted, loyal, choosing people over escape even when it costs you something.

He’s always admired that about you.

It’s why this is hard.

The idea comes three days later, tossed out like a joke while you’re sitting on the floor of Family Video, surrounded by boxes neither of you have the energy to unpack.

“My parents have a beach house,” Steve says suddenly.

You blink. “Your parents- parents?”

“Unfortunately,” he says dryly. “Somewhere in California. It’s empty. Has been for years.”

The way he says it, casual but hopeful, makes your chest ache.

“A beach,” you repeat.

“Sun. Ocean. No monsters. No sirens,” he adds, then glances at you. “No, Hawkins.”

You hesitate. He sees it immediately.

“It wouldn’t be forever,” he says quickly. “Just… a while, you know, to breathe. Recover. Relax.”

Recover. Relax. Words that feel foreign on your tongue.

Your mother would worry, but she would understand. Dustin would complain but secretly be proud, too busy with college applications to even really notice. And Steve, Steve looks like he’s been holding his breath since the world almost ended.

“A while,” you echo.

Steve smiles then, slow and bright and a little disbelieving, like he can’t quite trust that this is real. Like summer has just cracked open in front of him.

The beach house smells like salt and dust and old money.

It’s perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean, all wide windows and white-painted wood, the kind of place meant for vacations that never quite happen. The air is warm, the sun relentless, the waves loud enough to drown out memory.

For the first time in months, your shoulders loosen.

Steve drops your bags by the door and immediately kicks off his shoes, toes curling into the cool tile.

“This,” he announces, spreading his arms wide, “is where I officially stop being responsible for anyone.”

You laugh, a real laugh, surprising both of you, and something inside your chest unlocks.

The days fall into an easy rhythm.

Mornings are slow. Coffee on the deck. Bare feet and sun-warmed skin. Steve cooks badly and insists it’s part of the charm. You read books you barely follow. Sometimes you talk about nothing. Sometimes you don’t talk at all.

Afternoons blur into beach towels and saltwater, Steve diving into the waves like he’s sixteen again, hair wild and face open and free. You watch him like that, alive, unguarded, and wonder how anyone ever thought of him as just the King of Hawkins High.

At night, the air cools, and the house fills with the sound of the ocean. You cook together, shoulders brushing, tension humming low and constant. There’s an awareness between you that wasn’t there before, like the danger stripped something bare and left everything else exposed.

The heat doesn’t help.

Neither does the way Steve looks at you lately, eyes lingering, smile slower, touch deliberate.

One night, after too much wine and a sunset that sets the sky on fire, you find yourselves on the couch, legs tangled, the space between you charged.

Steve’s hand rests on your thigh, warm and solid. It’s been there for a while. Neither of you mentions it.

“You ever think,” he says softly, “that this feels… temporary?”

Your breath catches.

“Like summer,” he continues. “Like something you’re not supposed to want to last.”

You turn toward him. His face is open, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I don’t want it to be temporary,” you admit.

His thumb brushes lightly against your skin, just enough to make your heart stutter.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Careful. Like he’s asking permission even though he already has it. His lips are warm, tasting faintly of wine and sea air, and when you kiss him back, it feels like choosing something instead of surviving it.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Tell me if I’m crossing a line,” he murmurs.

You kiss him again instead. Reaching for more than you ever have.

It’s a few nights later, tangled in sheets with the windows open and the sound of the ocean filling the room, when the conversation happens.

It starts small.

“Do you ever think about the future?” Steve asks, staring at the ceiling.

You stiffen slightly. “Sometimes.”

“I think about kids,” he says, like he’s confessing a crime. “A lot, actually.”

You turn onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Steve-”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know it’s not… now. Or maybe not ever. I just-after everything? I want something normal. Loud. Messy. A house that feels full.”

His voice cracks just a little.

You swallow. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t even know if I ever will be.”

He nods, eyes closing briefly. “I figured.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not hostile.

“I don’t want to leave Hawkins,” you say finally. “Not for good. My mom needs me. Dustin-he’s still a kid, even if he pretends he’s not.”

Steve exhales slowly.

“I think about leaving,” he admits. “All the time. I don’t think this place ever gave me a chance to be anything else.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

“I’m scared of choosing wrong,” you say.

He turns toward you then, eyes soft, certain in a way that steadies you.

“I’ll follow you,” he says simply. “Wherever you go. However long it takes.”

Your throat tightens.

“Steve-”

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I don’t need it all figured out. I just need you.”

You lean in, kissing him slowly and deeply, sealing something unspoken between you.

Outside, the waves keep rolling in, endless, patient, constant.

Summer won’t last forever.

But some things don’t have to end.

Love this Idea! Much love <3

Where the Road Softens

Gilbert Blythe x fem!reader

warnings: Period typical language and setting (1890s), Gental love, slow burn, established relationship (courting), Emotional intimacy, Canon themes of loss and family, Mention of racism, fluff, soft domestic summary: Courting Gilbert Blythe was never loud or hurried. It was letters, careful glances, and the kind of affection that grows quietly. When he brings you, an assured Charlottetown girl, to Avonlea to meet Bash and Delphine, you begin to realize that love does not always ask you to become smaller. Sometimes, it asks you to stay.

Charlottetown had taught you how to walk quickly.

Not because you were impatient, but because the city moved whether you wished it to or not. Carriages rattled along the streets, merchants called out their wares, skirts brushed past one another without apology. You had grown used to it, grown sharp around the edges, some might say. A Charlottetown girl needed to be.

Gilbert Blythe noticed this about you almost immediately.

He noticed it in the way you held yourself when he offered his arm, how you accepted without hesitation, but with a brief, thoughtful glance, as though deciding something important. He noticed it in the way you spoke your mind plainly, without fuss or flirtation, and yet still smiled as though you found the world worth engaging with.

It was this balance that had drawn him in. And now, after months of letters and careful visits, of walks that never strayed too far from propriety and conversations that often did, you were courting.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But deliberately.

“You’ll find Avonlea much quieter than Charlottetown,” Gilbert said as the carriage turned onto the country road. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

You looked out over the fields, the green stretching wide and unbroken. “I think,” you replied, “it may be exactly what I need.”

He smiled, relief softening his shoulders. Gilbert had been anxious about bringing you into this part of his life. Bash and Delphine were not simply friends; they were family, forged through hardship and choice rather than blood. He wanted you to see them not as an obligation, but as a privilege.

When the house finally came into view, Bash was waiting on the porch,  Delphine balanced against his shoulder. She was small, wrapped in a soft blanket, one tiny hand curled into Bash’s shirt. Her dark eyes blinked slowly as she took in the unfamiliar face.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” you said, then softened when you looked at Delphine. “And her.”

Bash’s grin widened. “That’s Delphine. She doesn’t say much yet, but she’s a good judge of character.”

As if on cue, Delphine’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his shirt. You reached out instinctively, letting her wrap one small hand around your finger. Bash watched closely and nodded, satisfied.

“So,” Bash said, after introductions were made and tea was poured, “this is the young woman who has my friend writing letters like a schoolboy.”

Gilbert cleared his throat. You laughed, unoffended.

“I’m honored,” you said, meeting Bash’s gaze easily. “Though I assure you, I didn’t realize I was inspiring poetry.” 

The afternoon unfolded gently. You listened more than you spoke at first, absorbing stories of travel and loss, of starting anew in a place that did not always welcome you, of learning what it meant to raise a child without your love. When you did speak, it was with care, not pity, but interest. Looking at Delphine like someone who already understood responsibility.

Gilbert noticed everything.

 You asked Bash about his work, and he didn't miss the way Gilbert watched you, pride quietly blooming in his chest.

Later, when the sun dipped low and the air cooled, Gilbert brought you to see his apple trees.

“I was afraid,” he admitted, voice low, “that this might feel… too small for you.”

You stopped walking and turned to him fully. “Gilbert Blythe,” you said, “I am not frightened of quiet places. Only of feeling unseen.”

He met your gaze then, earnest and steady. “You would never be unseen by me.”

The words were simple. They were not a declaration, not yet. But they were honest, and honesty, you had learned, was the truest form of devotion.

That evening, as Bash pressed leftovers into your hands and clapped Gilbert on the shoulder with knowing warmth, you realized something quietly remarkable.

Charlottetown had taught you how to move.

But Avonlea, with its open skies and chosen family, was teaching you how to stay.

And beside Gilbert Blythe, that felt like its own kind of courage.

Steve Harrington x Henderson fem!reader

warnings: Angsty, traumatized Steve, mixed signals, slow burn, multal wanting, Soft heartbreak with hope?, 'Almost relationship ' dynamic. summary: You never expected Steve Harrington to matter to you, just a name, a reputation, someone your little brother admired. But after surviving Hawkins’ horrors together, Steve slowly becomes a constant presence in your life: lingering looks, quiet care, and moments that feel dangerously close to something more. As mutual feelings grow, both of you hold back, afraid of breaking what little stability you have left. In the end, your situation doesn't leave room for love, right? So you stay close enough to care, even if it means never fully having him. But how long could that actually last?

You always knew Steve Harrington.  He was a name first, the King of Hawkins High, the boy teachers watched a little closer, the one girls whispered about in the hallways. By the time you actually met him, you were already unimpressed.

Dustin, on the other hand, was not. 

“Where are you going ?” you asked from the couch as you saw your brother leaving.

“I'm hanging with Steve,” he said, dumping his backpack on the living room floor. 

You blinked. “Steve? Like Harrington?” You ask 

“Yeah,” Dustin beamed. “He’s like… nice. Weirdly nice.”

That was the first crack.

The second came weeks later, after your first encounter with a demogorgon in the Byer home.      You started playing nurse, patching up the boys when they needed. They couldn't go to a normal doctor after all. That's when Steve began to show up at your house, bloodied knuckles, split lips, that same stupid apologetic smile as if your living room had become some headquarters for broken boys who pretended they weren’t scared.

You were older than most of them, and mature enough to understand what fear looked like when it tried to pass as humor.

After that, it was small things.

Steve waiting for you before walking Dustin home.

Steve sitting a little closer than necessary during mission debriefs. 

Steve glancing at you when he thought no one was looking, and looking away too fast. You hated yourself for noticing.  Steve Harrington didn’t look at people casually.

When he looked at you, it felt like he was holding his breath.

You convinced yourself it was nothing.

Just proximity. Trauma bonding. Shared chaos.

You told yourself he was just being Steve, overprotective, loyal, painfully earnest.

But then there were nights like this one.

The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Dustin was asleep. Steve had stayed late again, sitting at the kitchen table like he didn’t quite want to leave.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“You don’t have to keep coming over, Dustin is fine,” you said gently.

Steve swallowed. “I know.”

But he didn’t move.

The space between you felt charged, like something unsaid kept pacing back and forth, waiting to be acknowledged.

He finally stood. “I should go.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He walked to the door, hand on the knob, then paused.

“Do you ever,” he started, then stopped. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Your heart did something stupid.

“Steve.”

He turned.

For a second, you thought he might say it. Whatever it was.

Instead, he just looked at you, soft, aching, careful.

“Goodnight,” he said.

The door clicked shut.

And you stood there long after, thinking,

What would I do if I were close to you?

If wanting was quiet, almost was loud.

Almost, Steve was brushing past you in the hallway, hand grazing your arm like an accident neither of you believed.

Almost was sitting beside him on the couch, knees touching, neither of you moving away.

Almost was the way he always found you in a room, even when he didn’t need to.

You noticed how he took care of Dustin as if it were instinct.

How he listened when you spoke, really listened.

He looked tired lately, like he was carrying more than he let on.

And the worst part?

You felt close.

Not in the obvious way, no confessions, no grand gestures.

But in the way Steve lingered.

In the way he waited.

The night it broke open, it was raining.

Dustin had fallen asleep at the Wheelers’, and Steve offered to walk you home anyway, like you needed the protection.

You let him.

Halfway there, you stopped under a streetlight, rain misting your hair.

“Steve,” you said, quietly.

He looked at you immediately attentively as if you would dissapear if he looked away. “What’s wrong?”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Why do you keep doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

“This,” You say, gesturing between you two

Then space. The silence. The waiting.

He looked at you like he already knew the answer.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted. “And I don’t know if I should.”

Your breath caught.

“You could...” you said. “If you wanted to.” 

Steve stepped closer, rain soaking through his jacket. “That’s the problem.”

You were so close, now close enough to see the doubt in his eyes, the care, the fear of ruining something that hadn't even happened yet.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “And I hate that it feels selfish.”

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because everything feels fragile,” he said. “And you’re… good. You’re steady. Dustin needs you. And I don’t want to be the thing that complicates that.”

You felt it, then the truth settled heavily in your chest.

He wasn’t afraid of wanting you.

He was afraid of having you.

“So what do we do?” you asked.

Steve’s voice was barely audible.

“I stay close enough to care. Far enough not to hurt you.”

You laughed softly, bitterly. “That sounds like torture.”

“Yeah.” He smiled.

For a moment, you thought he might kiss you.

Instead, he reached out and gently brushed the rain from your cheek with his thumb, slow and reverent. Enough to make you want more.

“I wish,” he said, “that wanting was enough.”

He stepped back.

And just like that, it was over

not with heartbreak, but with restraint.

Later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you realized something painful and true:

You didn’t lose Steve Harrington. 

You just had to make him realize that he was good, just as good as he said you were.  

Warnings: Angsty, emotionally charged, one-sided love?, Jealousy, off limits reader, unresolved love, training tension, reader is dating Nightwing

Just had a thought

Wayne Manor – Batcave Training Room

You tied your hair back, stretching as you stepped into the ring. The training mat was cool beneath your feet, and the air smelled like rubber, sweat, and old tech. Across from you stood Jason Todd—Red Hood—cracking his neck like he was about to go ten rounds with someone who wasn’t just a teammate.

“Try not to break anything, Todd,” you teased, sliding into stance.

“Can’t make any promises if you leave your guard open,” he said with a smirk, but something in his voice felt...off. Sharper. Tense.

From the edge of the room, Nightwing, your boyfriend, watched with his arms crossed, leaning against a pillar. “Keep it clean,” Dick called. “I don’t want either of you limping into patrol tonight.”

You threw the first punch.

Jason blocked it, easily. The fight flowed in muscle memory and instinct—kick, dodge, parry—but the tension wasn’t just in the clash of limbs. It was in Jason’s eyes. In the way he lingered too long on each move, how his jaw clenched tighter every time your skin brushed his.

“You’re holding back,” you said, breathless after a flurry of strikes. “That’s not like you.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe I’m just trying not to hurt you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll win.”

That did it.

Jason lunged. You barely ducked under the swing and swept his legs, but he rolled, recovered, and pinned you faster than you could blink. His body hovered over yours, forearm pressed near your collarbone, breath hot on your cheek.

And then—you both froze.

Too close.

Too still.

His eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, the room vanished. There was no Batcave. No mission. No Dick watching from the corner.

Just you and Jason—and the weight of everything unspoken between you.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Jason muttered, voice rough.

You swallowed. “Get what?”

He didn’t move. “That I let you win every damn time I’m around you.”

Your breath caught. “Jason—”

Before you could finish, Dick’s voice broke through.

“Everything okay?” His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of tension in it. Protective. Watching.

Jason pushed himself off you, too fast, jaw locked. “Yeah. Training’s over.”

He didn’t look back as he grabbed his helmet and stalked out of the room.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding.

Dick walked over, offering a hand to help you up. You took it, but your mind was still on Jason. On the way, he looked at you, on the small confession that slipped through the cracks of his anger.

And now… You couldn’t un-hear it.

Thinking about ...

Bartender by night, college student by day reader , trying to keep your head down in a city that never sleeps and never forgives. One night, as you’re locking up the bar, you find a man collapsed in the alley. At first, you think he’s dead… until he groans and rolls over—and you see that blue bird symbol.

Nightwing. The vigilante. Bleeding out in your alley.

You panic. You want to call someone. But he stops you—weakly gripping your wrist, muttering “No hospitals.” So you do the only thing you can: drag him upstairs to your tiny apartment above the bar, and stitch him up yourself.

You think it’ll be a one-time thing. It isn’t.

It has been years since I actually wrote something for tumbler but I recently saw this and even though it has been forever I thought I would do something again! Sorry to anyone who wanted me to write again.

I wrote the first one when I had just watched Anne with an E for the first time and couldn't take Gilbert out of my head haha. 

Ps. I used your idea, but I didn't really run with the sick Gilbert idea much.

Much love <3

Warning: Jealousy, some angst, fluff, Gilbert is a bit insecure, slight gossip?, not proofread

Y/N had always been a free spirit. Though she was raised alongside Diana due to their mothers' close friendship and shared social standing, Y/N never fit the mold of the typical Avonlea girl. While Diana stuck to etiquette and charm school, Y/N climbed trees, helped with farm work—especially at the Blythe farm—and refused to follow what society deemed "ladylike."

She had grown up learning piano with Diana, yes, but she also lied to her parents about studying with Gilbert just to spend more time helping him out on the farm, particularly when his father grew ill. That part of her life had always made her feel more real, more alive.

So it’s no surprise she was thrilled when Cole returned to school. Like her, he didn't quite agree with the expectations placed on him, though he pushed back more quietly. His sweet nature and shared frustrations made it easy for Y/N to connect with him—and, with her help, Diana soon followed. But Cole’s growing family troubles meant he was in and out of school, and neither Y/N nor Diana could do much. Their families disapproved of the bond forming between them and someone of Cole's lower social standing.

That’s when Anne came into the picture. She and Diana became fast friends while Y/N spent most of her time at the Blythe household, helping Gilbert cope with his father’s illness and catching him up on schoolwork. But once Y/N met Anne, it was as if they’d known each other forever. There was something about Anne that understood her in a way no one else had. Anne's presence was a breath of fresh air amidst the storm swirling through Y/N's life.

When Gilbert’s father passed away and he decided to leave Avonlea in search of something greater, Y/N was heartbroken. But his absence gave her the space to focus on the parts of her life she’d been neglecting—her friendships, her studies, her sense of self. They still wrote to each other, though. At first often. Then slowly, the letters dwindled. As Cole returned to school and Gilbert's locations became harder to track, Y/N began to understand: he was doing what he loved. He might not come back.

Until one day—he did.

In that classroom, when their eyes met again, Y/N felt a rush she hadn't expected. It was the same feeling she’d get reading his letters late at night, the same feeling she pushed away over and over. But she didn’t know what to do with it. Her family never talked about feelings—especially ones like these—so she buried them, just like always. And in doing so, she pushed him away.

Romance had become the talk of the class. Walking home with a boy could start rumors. And that was just more reason to avoid Gilbert—especially when he was suddenly looking for any excuse to be around her again.

Gilbert, of course, was confused. He knew they’d grown apart, but he was trying. He wanted to rebuild the closeness they once shared, but she wouldn’t let him.

Then came the day he spotted her at the bookshop in the city. Without thinking, his feet moved toward her.

“Hey, Y/N. I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, catching his breath as he studied her features.

“Gilbert!” she said, surprised. “I could say the same.”

“I was picking up a few things—getting ready to start the farm up again,” he said with a grin, soaking in the moment of finally talking to her again like old times.

She looked away, clearly searching for an excuse to leave. “Oh. Right… the farm.”

What Gilbert didn’t see was how warm her cheeks had turned, or how her stomach fluttered with that familiar but frustrating feeling.

“What do you have there?” he asked, trying to keep her attention.

“Oh! This? Cole recommended it… it’s a romance,” she said quietly, glancing down at the book.

He caught that. Y/N knew Gilbert wasn’t stupid. She remembered reading in one of her mother’s old etiquette books that a subtle way to show interest was to imply what you were looking for. Was she doing that?

She looked up and saw his face—his cheeks flushed too, but his eyes looked… angry? Annoyed? It was a look she’d only seen on him once or twice before.

“Are you—” she began, but he cut her off.

“I should go. Bash is waiting for me,” he said, almost too quickly.

“Oh. Right…” she mumbled, watching him leave.

What were you thinking? you scolded yourself all the way home. He's Gilbert Blythe. Why would he ever be interested in you? That look he gave you—it had to be rejection, didn’t it?

Meanwhile, Gilbert was going through his own storm. Was she blushing because of Cole? Did she like Cole? Her parents wouldn’t approve… right? And what kind of man recommends a girl a romance novel unless he’s interested?

His head spun with thoughts he couldn’t make sense of—until Bash found him lying awake that night, unable to sleep. After some reluctant talking, Gilbert came to realize what he’d already known deep down: he didn’t just care for Y/N. He was in love with her.

Y/N, on the other hand, wanted to disappear from embarrassment. The idea of even looking Gilbert in the eye made her stomach churn. She had to tell someone. She needed to get it out. So she confided in Cole. Not Diana, not Anne—she didn’t want it to become something bigger than it was.

Cole understood. He didn’t ask too many questions. He just listened. And that comfort drew them even closer. They began spending more time together. Walking home alone a few times. Y/N hated that society turned every boy-girl friendship into something romantic. She wasn’t going to let that limit her anymore.

But of course, the change didn’t go unnoticed. Especially not by Gilbert.

The breaking point came one day after school when a group stayed behind to help clean up. Gilbert was wiping the windows when he saw her—sitting with Cole outside, laughing at something he doubted was even funny. Then, her hair fell slightly out of her bun, and without hesitation, Cole tucked the strand behind her ear.

Gilbert felt sick. He couldn’t take it.

He dropped everything and stormed out of the school, catching Y/N’s attention instantly.

“Gilbert!” she called, noticing the pain on his face. He didn’t even look back.

She turned to Cole.

“Go after him,” he said.

“Me?” she asked, stunned.

“Yes!” he nodded, encouraging her.

“Okay!” she grabbed her bag and ran.

“Gilbert, wait up!” she called, chasing him down. He didn’t stop.

“Hey! What’s the matter?” she asked, finally reaching for his sleeve, forcing him to turn around.

“Cole is the matter!” he blurted out.

She froze.

“You hate Cole?” she asked, confused.

“No!” he said quickly, then sighed. “You said we couldn’t walk together anymore because it would be improper. But you walked home with Cole yesterday,” he said, the doubt heavy in his voice.

She looked down, caught. “I just thought…”

She paused, too afraid to admit that she pushed him away because she didn’t want just friendship. So she deflected.

“Why does that even matter?” she challenged.

“It matters because I wanted to do that!” he exclaimed.

Her heart stopped. “You wanted to walk me home? I thought—”

“I’ve been trying since I came back, but your eyes have been on Cole,” he said, nervously shoving his hands into his pockets—something only she would notice meant he was anxious.

She let out a shaky breath and gave him a gentle push. “It doesn’t matter if Cole walks me home. I don’t like him like that…” she hesitated. “But you…”

She looked away, her cheeks on fire.

Silence filled the space between them, thick with tension and unspoken feelings—until she felt warm hands on her face, gently guiding her to look up.

“You…?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “You have feelings for me?”

Gilbert knew it was bold to touch her like this. But he hadn’t felt this close to her in months, and he had to know it was real.

She nodded, and his smile lit up like someone had just handed him his medical license.

She closed her eyes, heart racing, half-thinking—was this it? Were we about to kiss?

But instead, he chuckled and pulled back.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” he said with a grin so wide it made your knees weak.

She could have melted into the ground from embarrassment.

“Let me walk you home?” he asked, grabbing your bag.

“Yes!” she said a little too quickly. “That would be lovely.”

Summary: Someone posts a letter for you in the schools take notice board making Gilbert worry about your fellings towards him.

warnings: a little angst, slight jealousy, established relationship (courting), gossiping, slight talk of cheating

Gilbert stared at the take notice board once again as his mind raced. You were his girl he thought. Everyone knew that he was courting you after all. Hell, he has been courting you for months. 

As he stood there Billy and his friends walked over.- “Hey Hey it looks like you were not the only one who took an interest in y/n.”- he mocked as the others laughed.- “I am courting y/n, not only taking notice”- Gilbert hissed with clear frustration in his tone.- “And besides they weren't even courageous enough to sign a name to it.”- As Gilbert said that he noticed Billy's smile fall and he cleared his throat- “Well either way you should watch out, someone might steal your girl”- he taunted as he walked away.

      That same morning the girls sat in their corner giggling.- “Who do you think posted to y/n?” Ruby beamed.- “Oh how romantic is this? You have a secret admirer!” Anne cried out. Which got her a nudge from Diana.- “It’s not romantic Anne. y/n is already being courted and it's extremely inappropriate to write such a letter to a taken girl.” Diana affirmed.- Ruby giggled at that.- “Well y/n is not truly taken Diana, Gilbert hasn't proposed and besides the more options the better.”- Rudy offered, making all the girls but Diana giggle.- The idea of a proposal made you blush as you whispered.- “whoa slow down Ruby, it's too early to think about such things. I have a future and college to think about.”- Even with your efforts on keeping the girls quiet Gilbert still heard Ruby’s opinions on the matter. Which brought him more anxiety towards this new suitor of yours.

         After class, he decided to walk you home which got a reaction from your classmates, especially the boys. The first half of the walk was silent. You both had a lot on your mind and you weren't sure what to say if there even was anything to be said at all.- “I..”- You both said, causing laughter to rupture from both of you.- “You go first”- you advised as he stop walking, making you stop as well.- “Y/n have you been hiding something from me?”- He asked- “What?” you breathed- “I…you..it’s just that I have been courting you for months.”- He started holding your hands.- “And I don't understand why anyone would…unless you have--.”- he said but not before you interrupted him.- “Oh my Gilbert, how could you think such a thing?” you cried.- “You are the only person I love Gilbert Blythe.” You claimed with a hand to his cheek.- With a smile, he said “I love you too dear y/n... I just worry you will find a better suitor”- “that I am not enough”  he blubbered with a frown.- “Gilbert you are more than enough, you are everything I have ever wanted in a suitor and more. Stop giving mind to who has taken notice of me, and remember I complied with your advances.” you consoled, squeezing his hand. He smiled at that, leaning closer and giving you a soft kiss in which you complied.