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"There is absolutely no way this is mine."
Bea held a coral sweater up against her body. It was—in Tora's opinion—a practical, comfortable, and cute top. Bea ran a finger along the ribbed turtleneck collar with a shudder and threw it to the side.
"Alright, alright," Tora said, snatching the sweater back from her. "You look cute in it, though."
"Cute?" Bea smirked at her. "How would you know? I've never worn that sweater before in my life."
"No, you have," Tora said, folding the sweater carefully. "It was before we moved into the embassy. You slept over at my place one night, and you left your old clothes there for me to wash." She set the folded sweater on top of the pile of her own clothes she'd been amassing—various items of hers that had wound up in Bea's closet over the years, whether borrowed or stolen or abandoned or forgotten there. "That's probably how it wound up at your place. You must've hung it up and then forgotten you'd ever borrowed it."
"Okay, well, I'm glad you want it back, because no way was I keeping it," Bea said. "I don't care whether you think it's cute or not. You have horrible taste."
"It's cute on you," Tora insisted. "Makes your eyes pop."
That part was what she had the most vivid memory of. Bea had been facing away from her, digging through her closet. She'd put the sweater on, and then Tora had watched her from the foot of her bed, a bit mesmerized, as she tied her hair up. Bea could squeeze all her cascading curls into one ponytail like it was nothing, her expert hands tying her hair up with the precision of a jet pilot manipulating a control yoke. All she left behind was a little loose frizz around her scalp, the stuff that would be impossible to capture even if she'd had Tora's flat, thin hair. Tora had realized suddenly that she'd never seen the back of Bea's neck before. Then Bea had turned around, and Tora had thought—wow, her eyes are green green.
In the present day, Bea's face made a weird little twitch like she had to sneeze, and then she changed the subject. "At least we know this is mine," she said, holding up a striped tank top.
Tora blinked. "Bea, that's absolutely mine."
"What are you talking about? I've worn this a million times."
"Bea," Tora said patiently, "I thrifted that top a year ago, from that new place across from the corner store. I haven't worn it much because it's a little—well, it's sort of revealing—but it's still my shirt. I like it! I like the colors! But you keep stealing it back every time I try to reclaim it!"
"Oh my god, you're right." Bea dropped the tank top on the bed like it was on fire. "How much of my wardrobe is yours?" She tugged at the crop top she was wearing to get a better look at it. "Is this shirt even mine?"
Tora tried and failed to stifle a giggle. "No, it's not!" she said, realizing at the same time as Bea did. Bea had rescued it from her after an ill-advised attempt to crop her own shirts one excruciatingly boring weekend when there were no disasters to handle or civilians to rescue or even Booster-and-Beetle-related fires to put out. It'd been Bea who suggested she try cropping shirts, thinking she could channel Tora's passion for DIY into expanding her wardrobe. A sweet idea, but Tora had hated the end product. Afterward, Tora had tied herself into knots worrying she was a bad person for ruining perfectly good clothes for nothing, so Bea had volunteered to take them for her own wardrobe. It was only fair, since the whole thing had been Bea's idea.
Wait, taking her clothes hadn't been her goal from the start, had it—?
"Stop laughing!" Bea said, her mouth pressed into a flat, trembling line that told Tora she was trying not to laugh, too. "That could have happened to anyone!"
"Anyone who's a clothes thief," Tora said teasingly. "Beatriz, do you do this to everyone, or just me?"
"Takes one to know one," Bea said, pointing at her accusingly. "You're wearing my jacket!"
"No, I'm not," Tora said, glancing down at her clothes. "Oh my god, I am," and whatever explanation she was going to try and give her was drowned out by Bea's raucous laughter.