Hello! Exactly a year ago, I posted my first story Anne & Gilbert story here, and I thought I'd celebrate with a little update. Thank you so much for reading, and for all your lovely comments and messages! I was so happy with all of the reactions to the last chapter.

I've had the idea for this one in my head since I first started planning AoRC. This and chapter 7 were actually the first ones I drafted, so I hope it's as enjoyable as I imagined it to be.

I also changed the number of chapters I originally planned for this fic, but the next update will follow soon!

Anne stood by her bay window, the late afternoon breeze curling around her. The pale-green muslin curtains billowed slightly, streaks of soft light shifting over the floor. A mug in one hand, she nudged the window open a little farther with the other.

"I'm just saying," Diana mused, "you look at him like some Elizabeth Bennet, all wistful sighs and longing gazes across the ballroom. It's all very romantic, very Austenesque, you know." She was sprawled on the couch behind Anne, watching her friend with the smug satisfaction of someone about to be proven right.

Anne huffed a laugh. "Please."

"Oh, absolutely," Diana countered, sitting up suddenly. "And I think he likes you too." She gestured toward the window with her cup. "You two are basically starring in a suburban rom-com. All the helloes, a little smile here, a wave there. You're both outside at the same time way too often for it to be a coincidence. 'Pardon me, Mr. Blythe.' 'After you, Miss Shirley.' It's getting suspicious. Next thing I know, you'll be borrowing a cup of sugar, and he'll be putting his big—"

"Diana Barry!"

"—gardening gloves into his back pocket," Diana finished with a wicked grin.

Anne rolled her eyes, tuning her out as she looked back outside. Gilbert straightened from where he'd been crouched near his flower beds, his T-shirt and hair a complete mess, a smudge of dirt on his cheek just above the dimple hidden beneath his stubble. Seeing him like this reminded her of the day she found out he was the mysterious next-door neighbor. A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

As if sensing her stare, Gilbert looked up. Without thinking, she lifted a hand in a small wave.

And, just like always, he waved back.

Diana giggled into her tea. "See?!"

"It's called being polite. Didn't they teach you that in that fancy law school of yours?"

Diana sniffed. "They taught us many things. Mainly how to spot people in denial." She arched a brow over the rim of her cup. "But go on, tell me—what's he up to now?"

Anne glanced over again. Gilbert was hauling a small tree into place, its thin trunk wobbling slightly as he adjusted it in the soil. She watched as he stepped back, checking his work.

Her gaze wandered a little. The way his head balanced so easily on the strong line of his neck, the slope of his shoulders shifting beneath his T-shirt. His dark forearms flexed as he steadied the tree. Her eyes trailed lower, down the curve of his back, before she caught herself, heat creeping up her neck.

"He's planting an apple tree," she reported, clearing her throat, though it did nothing to ease the sudden dryness there.

Diana hummed. "How wholesome."

"He said it'll take at least three years to actually produce fruit, but he's not planning on moving anytime soon." She repeated his words from the other day without thinking, something warm settling in her chest at the idea of him staying.

Diana took a slow sip of tea, giving her a long, knowing look. "Interesting."

Anne was just about to throw a seat cushion at her when the sound of a front door slamming snapped her attention to the right. Mr. Harrison, now fully recovered and back from his trip, had taken it upon himself to resume his self-appointed supervisory duties. He strode over to Gilbert's yard, arms swinging with purpose, scanning the garden like a general assessing his troops.

"Well now," he grunted, nodding. "That's not half bad."

Gilbert smiled, resting his hands on his hips. "And that's nearly a compliment."

"Don't get cocky, doc." Mr. Harrison motioned vaguely around the yard. "All that grass still needs cutting."

Anne pressed her lips together to keep from giggling as Gilbert slung his arm around Mr. Harrison's shoulder, leaning in with an impish look flickering across his face. "I like it a bit wild."

Mr. Harrison let out a sharp, exasperated breath and shrugged him off. He squinted at the yard. "It looks like a blasted thicket!"

"But garden meadows are in," Gilbert countered smoothly. "Butterflies love them."

The old man grumbled something about "lazy people excuses" but gave a reluctant nod before shuffling off, muttering about how at least Gilbert had pruned the lavender.

Gilbert pulled off his work gloves, holding them in one hand as he walked toward his house—only to glance up and catch Anne watching.

"Are you judging my gardening choices too?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. I'm planning to install an urban hive next."

Anne blinked. "Like… bees?"

He nodded, wiping his hands on his jeans. "They're good for the garden. Should like it here." He glanced around, as if picturing them already.

"And your grand plan is to become a beekeeper on top of everything else?"

Gilbert's brow twitched, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, easy smirk. "What can I say? I like a challenge."

Anne shook her head, but she couldn't quite stop smiling.

Diana, who had been quietly observing the whole exchange with the air of someone watching their favorite slow-burn romance play out, sighed dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case."

Anne ignored her. But as she watched Gilbert rake a hand through his curls, the sunlight catching on his tanned skin, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that Diana might be onto something.

The following Saturday Anne stepped outside on a breezy morning, already picturing the flaky almond croissants she was determined to snag before the bakery stall at the market sold out. The scent of blooming honeysuckle lingered in the air, mixing with the quiet hum of the slowly waking neighborhood.

Basket in hand, she was just about to turn around to lock the door, key in hand, when something unusual caught her attention—a lone figure slumped over the steering wheel of a car parked right in front of her house.

Her stomach tightened. She recognized that car.

Gilbert.

Was he okay? Had he fallen asleep mid-drive? Was this the moment she'd have to heroically smash a car window to perform an emergency rescue?

Without a second thought, she run to the gate, onto the pavement, up to the car and tapped on the window.

Nothing.

She knocked louder.

Still nothing.

Finally, she rapped her knuckles against the glass with enough force to wake the dead.

Gilbert startled awake with a dramatic jolt, eyes wide, hair a complete disaster. He blinked at her in confusion, like a man trying to piece reality back together.

"Anne?" His voice was thick with sleep. "What—what are you doing?"

"Fishing for lake trout," she felt relief washing over her. "Gilbert, why are you treating your car like a five-star hotel?"

He rubbed a hand down his face. "I must've dozed off."

"You think?" Anne crossed her arms. "You can't sleep in your car. Come inside before you get arrested for suspicious loitering."

Gilbert blinked at her, then at his house, then back at her, as if trying to remember how doors worked. "Just finished a double shift," he mumbled. "Didn't make it inside. Just needed a minute to close my eyes."

"That was more than a minute. That was an entire REM cycle."

A slow, lopsided smile tugged at his lips. "Well, at least I made it to the right address."

Anne's initial worry was quickly giving way to sympathy. "Come on, I'll make you some coffee."

"I don't want to intrude."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You already passed out in front of my house. The least I can do is caffeinate you before you wander off like a zombie."

Gilbert groaned but let her guide him inside where he plopped onto the couch.

"Stay here. No sudden movements. Try not to faceplant. I'll be right back."

Gilbert immediately slumped against the cushions, looking seconds away from slipping back into unconsciousness, whilst Anne headed into the kitchen.

She set the kettle to boil, grabbing the first mug she could find. As she waited for the water to heat, she nervously drummed her fingers against the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that Gilbert Blythe was in her living room.

They'd talked plenty of times. He'd even handed her misdelivered mail more than once. But somehow, having him here felt… different.

The kettle clicked, stopping her from overthinking. She exhaled, relieved, loaded the tray with drinks and shortbread, and carried it into the living room—only to find Gilbert fast asleep again, head tilted back, breathing slow and even.

His tired face, usually full of teasing grins, was relaxed, the worry lines smoothed away. Anne set the tray down, grabbed a blanket and draped it over him, then went back to the kitchen and settled at the table with her laptop. Hours slipped by unnoticed, lost in emails and deadlines, until a sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts.

"You should've woken me up."

Anne looked up to find Gilbert standing in the doorway, running a hand through his hair. His shirt was rumpled, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and he looked entirely too good for someone who had spent the night in a car.

"You looked like you needed it."

He yawned, leaning against the counter. "But I messed up your plans."

Anne shrugged. "I caught up on work I'd been putting off too long, so technically, you did me a favor. You may owe me a couple of almond croissants, though." She eyed the cold coffee on the tray. "And before I send you back into society you need one properly brewed coffee."

Gilbert looked at the mug in front of him, reading aloud, "'What superbly featured room and what excellent boiled potatoes.'" He chuckled. "I should've known you were a Pride & Prejudice fan."

"Well spotted", said Anne, slightly impressed.

"My mom's obsessed. The book, movies, especially the Bollywood version. On their 40th wedding anniversary, my parents went to England to do one of those Austen tours. My dad even dressed up." He pulled open her cupboard without hesitation, scanning her collection. "Got any more?"

The ease with which he did that struck her, like he'd done this a hundred times already.

"'Talk Darcy to me.' Oh, she'd love that." He turned to her. "Okay, you need to tell me later where you found these."

Anne watched him with a mix of amusement and curiosity as he closed the cupboard.

"Don't get up," Gilbert said, grabbing his now-cold coffee. "I'll just reheat this—" He found the microwave, popped it in, and pressed start.

Anne gasped. "Marilla would never forgive me if she knew I let a guest drink microwaved coffee."

"You can blame me for that." Gilbert shot her a lazy smile.

"Oh, I do." She let out an exaggerated sigh. "At least let me offer you some of her shortbread as compensation."

She passed him the plate, and he took a bite, eyes widening. "This is insanely good!"

"It better be, with the amount of butter and sugar in it. You should probably check your cholesterol after this."

Gilbert, with a slow, deliberate look, reached for another piece. "If I'm going to sin, I might as well do it right."

Anne's breath hitched. The microwave dinged, Gilbert retrieved his coffee and dropped into the chair across from her.

"Gluttony sounds like a seductive life choice when the shortbread is worth it," he said, popping another piece into his mouth, without looking away from her.

Anne took a sip of her tea to distract herself. This man was dangerous. Not even five minutes into the conversation, and he'd already made her mind fuzzy.

"So," she said, steering the conversation elsewhere, "was your night particularly eventful, or is this just standard Friday night ER chaos?"

Gilbert stretched, suppressing a yawn. "Oh, you know. Broken bones, some questionable life choices, a couple of people yelling at the nurses because the waiting room TV wasn't on their favorite channel—"

"Go on."

"Let's see… it started slow with a kid who got a finger stuck in a door."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, we did an X-ray and only the tip was broken. But the good news is little bones heal fast. Just needed some tape and pain relief, no cast. It'll be good as new in a few days."

"Then came the usual parade of drunk people—alcohol poisoning, falls, cuts, broken noses, bar brawls. And, of course, the ones who argue about the wait time, complain that somebody who came after them was admitted faster, or whine that the TV in the waiting room isn't on their favorite channel."

Anne shook her head, half amused, half exasperated. "So not only are you saving lives, but you're also a customer service rep? Sounds like you deserve a raise."

Gilbert rubbed his face. "We have to make sure no one slips through the cracks. Can't get distracted." His voice was quieter now.

"Then there was a pile-up on the Don Valley Parkway. Ambulance brought everyone to us, so it was all hands on deck. No time to breathe."

Anne hesitated, then reached out, covering his hand with hers. His skin was warm beneath her touch, grounding. It felt very comforting, and she wondered if he felt that too.

Then Gilbert exhaled. "But! We also get some truly ridiculous cases."

"Like what?"

"Once, a guy came in insisting he'd been bitten by a zombie and he was turning into one."

"Diagnosis?"

"Food poisoning. Eating expired sushi is always a gamble."

"Honestly? That's a little disappointing. I was hoping for at least one real-life paranormal emergency."

"Oh, and then, of course, there's the light bulb people."

Anne gaped. "The what?"

"You'd be surprised how many people get light bulbs stuck in their mouths. Easy to get in, but once it's in, the jaw locks. Can't get it out without muscle relaxants. Then it pops right out."

"But what if they sneeze before it's out?!"

"Fortunately, I've never had to deal with that."

"And this is something you have to deal with regularly?"

"Yes. Once, we had a guy with an average A size light bulb stuck in his mouth, and then his friend—who came with him!—showed up an hour later with an even bigger light bulb because, and I quote, 'he thought it was a matter of technique.'"

Anne clapped a hand over her mouth, and they both started to laugh.

"ER nights are a wild mix of serious cases and insanity."

"And you're out here making sure the light-bulb-eating public stays alive." She raised her mug. "To you, Dr. Blythe."

He chuckled, mirroring her toast. "To ridiculous life choices." he sipped. "And now I want to hear all about you. What type of job requires a mean throwing arm?"

Time ticked by, marked by drink refills, stories about her job, Marilla and Matthew, and her life before moving here.

"So you understand I had to show her that I can walk on that roof," Anne said, leaning forward.

Gilbert stared at her, brows raised, lips twitching. "Something tells me you'd be a frequent patient in my ER."

"I'll have you know, my survival instincts are impeccable. It's just…my decision-making skills that are questionable."

Suddenly the clock struck midnight.

She blinked. "Wait, what? When did it get so late?"

Gilbert tilted back in his chair, looking perfectly content. "Good conversation does that."

"Alright, Doctor Blythe, it's time for you to finally get some real sleep," Anne stood up to clear their empty mugs.

Gilbert grabbed the empty pizza boxes—the ones they'd somehow demolished at some point in the evening—and followed her to the door.

He lingered there, hand resting on the frame, as if debating something. "This was… nice. Very nice. Thank you for having me over." He hesitated for a second. Then he reached for her hand, lifting it gently to his lips. His eyes held hers as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. "Maybe we could do this again sometime. Preferably without me passing out in my car first."

Her cheeks went up in flames and a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies burst to life in her stomach. "I'd like that. Very much," she said in a hushed tone.

Gilbert opened his mouth as if to add something, but instead, he just flashed her one last dimpled smile before stepping out into the night.

Anne closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. The house fell quiet again, but the air still buzzed with his presence.

Well. That was not how she thought this Saturday would pan out.

A faint scent of lemons and grass lingered in the kitchen. She moved through the space absently, rinsing mugs, stacking plates, wiping down the counter, her body going through the motions while her thoughts refused to quiet, wandering elsewhere.

Eventually, she switched off the lights and made her way to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of the long day. But even as she slipped into bed, the warmth of his lips lingered on her skin, like a spark refusing to fade.

I cannot stress this enough - do not try to put a light bulb in your mouth.