I turn sideways. Oh no. I look like one of those cowboys from a romance book cover I’ve seen at bookstores.
“Are they on yet?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I swallow. “They’re just...very form-fitting.”
“That’s the point. You need freedom of movement. No extra fabric catching on things.”
“I have never once been caught on anything.”
“Because you’ve never chased a tornado through a fence.”
I examine my reflection again. I look sturdier. Broader. It’s deeply unsettling.
Before I can articulate my protest, something blue sails over the top of the door and lands squarely on my face. I flinch, momentarily blinded.
“What was that?”
“Shirt.”
I peel the fabric off my head and hold it up. It’s a Henley in a shade of blue so bright it could be used as a maritime signal.
I pull it on, the soft cotton surprisingly comfortable against my skin. The sleeves hug my arms. Years of hauling research equipment around campus has apparently had some physical benefit. It’s not like I prioritize getting to the gym when I barely make it home to sleep in my own bed most nights.
“I look like I repair tractors recreationally.”
“Let me see,” Lila says, and I can hear the impatience in her voice.
I hesitate, feeling oddly vulnerable. This outfit is so far outside my comfort zone that I might as well be wearing a spacesuit. But I've already agreed to chase tornadoes with this woman—surely I can handle a wardrobe change.
I unlock the changing room door and step out, arms spread in a reluctant “ta-da” gesture.
Lila looks up from where she’s leaning against the fitting room wall, and the second her eyes land on me, her expression changes. “Much better,” she adds, nodding in approval. “You almost look like you belong in the field now, not at some garden party.”
“I feel ridiculous,” I admit, tugging at the hem of the Henley.
“Well,” she says slowly, “that’s unfortunate for you.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“You know,” Lila says, her eyes traveling from my face down to my legs and back up again, “you actually look way better in jeans than in khakis.”
I feel heat rush to my face, and I resist the urge to tug at the collar of this too-tight shirt. But there's something in her gaze. A lingering, appreciative look that makes my embarrassment shift into a need to buy every pair of jeans in this place so long as she keeps looking at me like that.
“Is that a compliment?”
“Just an observation,” she says, but the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Turn around. Let me see the full picture.”
I hesitate for a moment before slowly rotating, feeling absurdly like I'm on some model runway. When I complete my turn, Lila is studying me with that same intense focus she usually reserves for storm systems.
“Definitely an improvement,” she concludes with a decisive nod. “The lab rat look wasn't doing your actual physique any justice.”
“You’re staring,” I point out.
She laughs loudly, which makes several other shoppers turn our way. “It won’t just be me, professor. Who knew all that was hiding under those shapeless button-downs?”
