I'll be your knight, I'll be your fool

It was Saturday night, almost Sunday morning, and Henry was walking past the Rotunda, its bright light spilling down the steps and causing the red brick path to smoulder like coal embers before the glow hazed into the pitch black of the Lawn, when a voice came out of nowhere.

"Hey. Psst."

His shoulders flinched and his stride faltered. Pace slowing, he glanced around.

But there was no one to be seen. Not on the path ahead or behind, not on the white marble steps leading up to the Rotunda, not on the Lawn.

He lingered a moment—he could have sworn he'd heard something—then, with his grip on his satchel strap tightening and his pulse thumping in his ears, he carried on.

A second later, the voice came again.

"Hey. Psst. Over here."

He halted. His gaze swept over his surroundings once more. A 180 arc, left to right.

Okay. He'd definitely heard something. But from where?

Three-quarters of the way through its arc, his gaze slammed to a stop, as though it had hit a brick wall, and it rebounded several degrees.

A few yards in front of him, bordering the right-hand side of the path, stood a hedge: the same height as he was, give or take an inch or two, its leaves small and glossy. From behind the hedge, a head peeked out. A girl. Blonde. Though, her hair had an almost bluish tint in the dim light.

"Hi," the girl said. "I really need your help."

A frown gathered on Henry's brow, and around the strap of his satchel his fingers flexed. The girl didn't appear to be in any distress—if anything she looked a little sheepish—and he wasn't entirely convinced this wasn't the lead-in to some kind of practical joke.

Or a mugging.

(Perhaps the latter was less likely on The Grounds, but it wasn't impossible. Send a pretty face to lure the mark away from the path, where a gang of thugs lurked in the dark, waiting to jump him.)

"Sure," he said, tone tentative. "Why don't you come over here?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm naked."

His eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I don't have any clothes on."

Well, that could be one reason for the sheepishness and why she was hiding behind the hedge… Though, it certainly led to more questions than answers.

"What happened to your clothes?" he said.

"Someone stole them."

Incredulity seeped into his voice. "Someone stole your clothes?"

"Yes. While I was streaking the Lawn. Now, please can I borrow your shirt?"

Henry hesitated. It was plausible, he supposed. Streaking the Lawn was a college tradition, and it wouldn't surprise him if on occasion an undergrad returned to the steps of the Rotunda to find all his clothes gone. But he'd never heard of any girls who'd taken part. And wouldn't it be the ideal set-up for a prank or a mugging? Just ludicrous (and alluring) enough that you'd buy it.

The girl huffed. "You don't believe me. Fine." She stepped out from behind the hedge, one arm held across her breasts, which were very much naked, the opposite hand providing a fig leaf further south, which was very much naked, too.

"Whoa. Shit." Henry's cheeks flamed and he forced his gaze to the ground, one hand rising to block the upper half of his vision—not that he was afraid of the female form, just having it thrust on him like that was a bit of a surprise, even with her warning that she was unclothed.

"Now will you let me borrow your shirt?" He could practically hear the girl's smirk.

"Sure. Of course. Just a sec."

He shrugged the strap of his satchel from his shoulder and let the bag drop to the bricks with a thud, then he unbuttoned his flannel shirt, fingers and thumbs fumbling in the rush.

Once he'd managed to wrestle the shirt off his back, leaving him in the plain white tee he wore beneath, he held the shirt out in front of him in one hand, the other hand blocking his vision once again, and he edged forward. When he felt a tug on the shirt, he stopped and let go.

"Thanks," the girl said.

He kept his gaze lowered, eyes shielded. Cheeks still burning. Sure, a visual demonstration was probably the quickest and most effective way to earn his trust, but still…

A few more seconds passed. Then the girl spoke again.

"It's okay. You can stop staring at the ground now."

Henry hesitated, then dared to look up. His shirt swamped the girl, covering everything that needed covering; though, its hem reached only to her mid-thigh, leaving miles of toned leg exposed. The smirk he'd detected in her voice quirked her lips and glittered in her eyes; it gave her an almost predatory edge, despite the fact she'd been the one forced to seek shelter behind the bushes.

"So, do I get to know the name of my knight in shining armour?" she said.

The look in her eyes and the playfulness in her tone made him feel like she might be flirting with him, but it was also entirely possible the sight of a gorgeous, leggy blonde wearing nothing but his shirt had scrambled whatever neural networks were required to accurately interpret those signals.

He hoped she was flirting with him. Did he mention: gorgeous, leggy, blonde?

"Henry," he said. "Henry McCord." Then he gestured to the shirt, pointing up and down. "And it's more like 'knight in flannel armour'."

He regretted the joke—Could it even be called a joke?—the moment he said it. (No doubt in her mind 'knight' had just been relegated to 'fool'.) But to his surprise, the girl laughed—a genuine laugh that burst from her with a snort and made his chest flush with a pleasant warmth.

The feeling washed away his embarrassment and emboldened him, enough for him to ask her in return, "Do I get to know the name of my damsel in distress?"

Her smile grew, outshining the light of the Rotunda. "Elizabeth," she said. "Elizabeth Adams."

"It's nice to meet you, Elizabeth. Can I walk you home?"

She arched an eyebrow. "You think I need a chaperone?"

He did. After all, she was a young woman walking alone in the middle of the night, naked except for his shirt. Hardly what you'd call safe, no matter how strong or independent she was.

He didn't say that, though.

"No. I just really like that shirt, and apparently the clothes you wear are in the habit of being stolen…"

"You're such an ass," she said, but her grin said she was reining back another laugh. (He got the sense that had they been better acquainted, she would have given him a playful shove or punch. Which, naturally, would have only spurred him on.)

He held her gaze a moment, sharing in that smile, then he backed up to the path and grabbed his satchel from where he'd dumped it on the bricks. "So, where are we going?"

"Old Dorms. Echols."

They ambled side by side along the path, their gazes scouring the bricks a couple of paces ahead, looking out for glass or anything else Elizabeth's bare feet might step on.

"So"—he shot her a quick glance—"how long were you hiding behind that hedge?"

"A while."

"Didn't your friends stop and help you?"

"I don't have any friends."

He frowned at her. "You don't have any friends?" Surely everyone had friends.

"I mean, I have acquaintances, people I talk to, but no one I'd really call a friend."

The statement didn't seem to bother her at all. It was just a fact, delivered as unemotionally as one would say, 'Today's Saturday,' as if perhaps, to her, friendlessness was the norm.

He wanted to ask her why that was so, but if she didn't see the situation as odd she'd probably brush off the question, and if something deeper lay beneath it she'd probably brush off the question—he was still a stranger, even if she was wearing nothing but his shirt.

He returned his gaze to the path. "So you decided to streak the Lawn on your own? Sober?"

The tales he'd heard of guys streaking the Lawn all involved large groups of friends and large quantities of liquor, but Elizabeth didn't appear intoxicated in any way and she smelled faintly of soap—not alcohol.

"Can't get your degree without first streaking the Lawn," she said.

"I got my degree okay, no public nudity involved."

She shook her head. Her expression and tone were solemn. "Then it doesn't count, I'm afraid."

A dry quip. "I'll be sure to note it on my résumé."

She laughed, a husky chuckle, and once again his chest glowed.

Two paces later, her gaze grazed his cheek. "So, you've already graduated? Does that mean—"

"I'm at grad school. Just started."

"Studying?"

"Religious Studies," he said, and then added quickly, "And no, I don't want to be a priest."

"Thought you'd settle for being a Good Samaritan instead?"

"More flexible hours, less commitment."

Another laugh. Another rush. He'd only heard that sound three times, but he felt pretty sure it (and the feeling it gave him) would never grow old.

"What about you?" he said. "What's your major?"

"I haven't declared yet, but most probably Math."

Math…?

Unusual for a girl.

He sent her a quick, sideways look. "You like numbers?"

She shook her head, like he was missing the point in the same way people missed the point when they equated studying religion with wanting to join the priesthood. "I like patterns. I like certainty. I like seeing how things fit together. If you believe that in the beginning God spoke and that's how He made the world, then math is the language He used."

A heavy frown settled on Henry's brow. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head again—dismissive, this time. "Nothing. I don't want to go all nerdy on you."

"I'm studying God and I haven't streaked the Lawn. I think it's safe to say I'm a nerd."

"Hey. Nerds get naked, too."

"You ought to put that on a bumper sticker."

Her lips curled with a grin, and when she met his gaze, just for a second, her eyes glinted.

The look caused his heart to skip and then leap into double time.

God…what he wouldn't give to make her look at him like that again.

"Talk math to me," he said.

She turned to him, her expression both wary and hopeful. "Really?"

"Really. Tell me about how math is the language of the universe."

And she did.

He couldn't say he understood much of what she said, but he liked the sound of her voice and the passion with which she spoke, he liked the way her whole body lit up, the same way believers glowed when they talked about unwavering faith, those instances when all doubt fell away and they could see the truth of God's love. He slowed his pace as much as he could, trying to delay their arrival at her dorm, but the couple of minutes it bought him were nowhere near enough—he could listen to her for hours, for days, and never tire of hearing her talk.

"So, this is me." Elizabeth came to a stop on the third floor corridor of her dorm and nodded over her shoulder to one of the doors.

(Henry had worried how she was planning on getting into her room, seeing as whoever stole her clothes presumably made off with her key too, but her RA had insomnia and a set of spares.)

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," she said. "And for letting me borrow your shirt."

"Of course." With one hand clutching the strap of his satchel, he shrugged, as if to say it was no bother. Which it wasn't. Once he got past his fear of pranks and muggings and their somewhat awkward start, he enjoyed spending time with her. He only wished it could have lasted longer.

"I'll wash it and return it to you."

"Sure," he said. "I have a pigeonhole at the department building. You can leave it there."

"Actually…" She bit her bottom lip. "I was thinking maybe I could return it in person."

His heartbeat quickened.

In person? She wanted to see him again?

"Oh?" He tried to play it cool.

"And maybe afterwards I could buy you dinner to say thank you."

"Dinner…? As in a date?"

Her lips curved into a wicked grin and the glint in her eyes turned teasing. "Well, you've already seen me naked, so it only seems proper."

Heat flooded his cheeks like sunburn scorching the inside of his skin, and his chin dipped with a nervous chuckle. Girls didn't usually make him get tongue-tied or self-conscious, but then again, nothing about Elizabeth Adams so far was usual.

After a moment to compose himself, he met her gaze. "I'd love to go on a date with you."

"Good," she said, her grin softening. "Come by here at seven on Friday?"

"I can't wait."

/

20 years later

"I thought we were going to dinner," Henry said.

It was the twenty year anniversary of the night he and Elizabeth met and they were supposed to be having dinner at the restaurant where they'd gone on their first ever date—a small family-run bistro whose spaghetti carbonara was, in Elizabeth's words, to die for—but Elizabeth, with her first two fingers hooked around his last two fingers, was drawing him in the opposite direction from the restaurant, instead leading him along one of the red brick paths at the edge of the Lawn.

"We are," she said, "but there's something we need to do first."

A wary feeling crawled across the inside of his stomach. Caterpillars, not butterflies.

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

She turned her face to his. "Don't you trust me?"

"Right now? Not particularly."

Annoyance flashed across her eyes before she could smother it. A beat later, she schooled her expression to indifferent, and turning away from him, she shook her head. "I'll remember that the next time you want to 'try something new' in the bedroom."

"Hey." He tugged at her hand. "Of course I trust you."

Her lips curved into sharp smile.

It probably should have concerned him how easily she could manipulate him, but it didn't.

What did concern him, though, was that she was leading him closer and closer to the Rotunda, and when they reached the steps, she stopped and pivoted to face him. The way she looked at him, an odd mix of insistent and pleading, told him exactly what was coming next.

She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, he cut her off.

"I'm not streaking the Lawn."

"Why not?" she said, her pitch making it clear she thought he was being more than unfair.

"Because someone might see."

"If there was no risk of anyone seeing, then it wouldn't be streaking."

She had a point, but—

He shook his head. "I'm not doing this, Elizabeth."

She pulled at his hand, while her expression turned full-on pleading. "Come on, Henry. I did it."

"In the middle of the night. With no one else around."

"Clearly there was someone around, because they stole my clothes. And did you really want to pay the baby-sitter to stay all night?"

The time of day and whether or not she'd done it wasn't the issue, though.

He stepped closer to her, bringing them toe to toe, and smoothed his palms up and down her upper arms. He stared into her eyes, hoping a little sincerity would be enough to manipulate her. "I just want to have a nice romantic meal with my wife. Save the nudity for home."

She studied him for a long moment, her gaze flitting back and forth as she searched his eyes. It felt like she was considering it, truly hearing him out, and when eventually her gaze stilled and she stepped back with a sigh and a, "Fine," he thought he'd won.

But then she kicked off her high heels, letting them clatter to the ground, and reached behind her; the sound that followed said she'd grabbed the zipper of her dress and was pulling it down.

Henry's heart hammered against his ribs, a flurry of panic. "What are you doing?"

She shrugged and her dress fell to the floor in a pool of blue silk. "If you're too chicken to do it for yourself, I'll have to do it for you."

"Elizabeth…we have students." He batted one hand at their surroundings, as if a crowd had gathered to witness it; though, in reality, aside from a few people wandering along the paths, no one else was around. Still, what with more and more students having cameras on their phones now, one person was all it took. And even if they didn't get photographic evidence, God knew he didn't want to deal with the rumours that he and his wife had been spotted streaking the Lawn.

Elizabeth flashed him a wicked smile, reached back and unclipped her bra. "Then we better be quick." The bra joined her dress, then she hooked her thumbs beneath the hem of her panties and let them drop. Standing fully naked in front of him, making no attempt to hide anything, she cocked her head to one side; her eyes glinted just as they had the first night he met her, after she told him, Nerds get naked, too. "Now, are you joining me, Professor, or are you gonna stand here and watch?"

Henry hesitated. Common sense screamed at him to refuse, to shuck off his jacket and wrap it around her before any unsuspecting student wandered by and saw way more than he or she had bargained for, but he knew that once Elizabeth got an idea into her head, there was no stopping her—it was one of the many reasons why he loved her.

And the fact that he did love her, the fact that somehow—after three kids, two high-risk jobs, and one massive fight that almost annihilated their marriage—the spark they'd felt that first night still existed between them was perhaps the reason why he wavered, why the voice of common sense dwindled to no more than a urgent whisper beneath the impulse to do it, to join her.

"Come on, Henry." Her smile softened a fraction, inviting more than daring. "It'll be fun."

One last moment of hesitation, of wavering, of common sense buffeting him back from the cusp.

Then he stripped.

Elizabeth's face lit up, shining with pride as much as with glee.

And hadn't he always been a fool for her?

Once his clothes lay in a pile next to hers, he took hold of her hand and together they ran all the way down the Lawn, the flow of air over his skin at once unnatural and liberating, jogged three laps around the statue of Homer, taking care not slip and fall, then raced back up the Lawn to the steps of the Rotunda, both of them giddy with laughter. Elizabeth was right: It was fun. Exhilarating. Not just because of the fear of being caught, but because it was the two of them, together, still able to act like kids and laugh with one another, even twenty years on.

When they neared the steps, their pace slowed to a jog and then to a walk. Slowly, the thrill of the run drained away and a sense of dread crept over Henry.

"Elizabeth…" he said, his gaze scouring the ground, "…where are our clothes?"

Elizabeth stared at the spot where their clothes had been. Her expression fell. "Oh crap."

Just then, footsteps clomped along the path, growing louder and louder. Voices, too.

Henry looked to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth looked to him.

There was only one thing for it.

"The hedge!" they both said.

And then they ran.

Thanks for reading!