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Requested so I hope it's alright
Hercule Poirot was an unusual man with his small moustache that he combed mercilessly every morning followed by the tiny scissors that maintained its upkeep in the evenings. His fine handmade suits are just scratching the surface of his refined personality. But at the end of the day he was still a man. A man who wanted to be loved. Perhaps the little grey cells were weakening, leading the Belgian man to Y/N Hastings. Hercule was still rather surprised that the young woman was related to the Captain but at the end of the day it was thanks to him they'd even met in the first place.
It had started as simple companionship, an evening spent pouring over golden embellished books, strolls in the fresh air when the flat seemed to slow the cogs moving in Poirot's brain during a case. Neither he or Y/N noticed the shift in relationship but soon there was an unwritten understanding between them. Hastings practically had a heart attack when Y/N walked out of the small kitchen cup of earl grey in hand looking rather comfortable in her surroundings, or maybe it was the small smile and loving pat of a hand from the detective that scared the tall English man. "Uncle Arthur" the y/h/c woman greeted cheerfully ignoring the bewildered look on her relatives face. "What are you doing here?" Arthur replied, his tone wavering in mild surprise, his posture recoiling into the armchair. "I was just helping Hercule with the Burkes" Y/N stated gesturing to the large red book sat on the coffee table. Hasting's may have usually been rather slow in these situations but even he could read between the lines.
