Thinking about a Tewkesbury x Enola Holmes type romance.
Content: Fem!Reader, Reader similar to Enola Holmes, Love Interest Similar to Lord Tewkesbury, Movie-Specific, I just liked the aesthetic, and also I wanted to make my pair have more chemistry 
No Smut! Just some domestic fluff.
Despite worrying for you greatly, your lover pushed down his anxieties about your job. You were a detective, an independent one—it was a job with danger, and that’s part of the reason you loved it so much. It felt free.
He didn’t feel it was his place to judge that. He was supposed to be a politician, after all, but in reality, he spent more time with his passion—botany, gardening, the like.
You walked up the stone steps of his residence, huffing and tired, and wrapped your sore palm around the tiny rope hanging from behind the pillars of the entrance, ringing the doorbell.
He came to the door almost immediately, opening the heavy wooden thing and looking at you. He was in thick gardening gloves and dark green work trousers, blinking in confusion at your appearance. You had your hair tied in a messy bun, tucked poorly under a newsboy’s cap, in three-sizes-too-big men’s overalls. Your hand was still on the doorbell rope, and there was ashy powder caked into your cuticles.
“Hello,” you murmured to him tiredly. He seemed to get over his initial shock and opened the door wider.
“Come in, darling,” he replied, putting his gloved hand on the small of your back and guiding you inside.
The sitting room was a mess, per usual, an organized one. The table was covered in plants in various states.
“I was bagging my new hyacinths, the emasculated ones,” he explained quickly as you looked at the cluttered table, leading you to the bathroom and turning on the creaky tap of the clawfoot bathtub.
The hot water made the entire bathroom steamy, and you let him undress you. He untied the precarious top knot in your hair and let your hair down, sighing softly and pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re in boy’s clothes and looking like a chimney sweep, or must I guess?” He murmured quietly, helping you step into the hot bath. He took a spoonful of castor oil from a tiny jar by the bath, the one he insisted on keeping full, and dropped it onto your fingernails, scrubbing out the dirt as gently as he could.
“Can I tell you tomorrow?” you asked quietly, watching him work, the crease in his brow as he focused. He looked up at you and smiled.
“As long as you’re safe, I don’t mind when or where you tell me your grand tales,” he teased, now beginning to brush the horrid tangles from your hair with a wet brush.
“Tell me about your hyacinths,” you said after a while, watching the ripples in the warm water from when you moved. He was washing your scalp with some herbal tea wash he concocted, massaging the foamy mixture into your hair.
He paused his ministrations, grinning at you boyishly.
“Gladly.”
