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I glance at Storm one last time, but he’s already found a seat across from me, his gaze steady and unreadable.

And I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: That there is something happening between us, and whatever it is, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. Plus, I’m not sure I want to.

Straightening, I begin. “First off, thank you all for coming. The Community Action Committee is all about identifying real, actionable ways to make a difference—not just talking about problems but solving them. And tonight, we’re focusing on a specific initiative: supporting the women at St.Clare’s Shelter.”

A few murmurs ripple through the room, and I let the words sink in for a moment before continuing. “St.Clare’s is a domestic violence shelter that provides housing, resources, and safety for women and children escaping abusive situations. They’ve asked for our help with some specific needs, and we’re here to figure out how we can step up.”

I glance around the room, meeting everyone’s eyes briefly. “This isn’t about optics or performative activism. It’s about making an impact—however we can.”

Storm shifts in his seat, and I know he’s about to say something before he even opens his mouth.

“What kind of support are they asking for?” he asks, his voice cutting through the quiet.

I nod, flipping to the list I jotted down earlier. “They’re looking for things like donation drives—clothes, toiletries, baby supplies—but also career workshops, childcare, and legal aid. Financial planning is a specific need, too. Many of these women have suffered financial abuse as well. They need support that helps them rebuild their lives.”

“What about a bake sale?” one of the newcomers says, a waif-like girl with purple hair and a nose ring. “We can sell them on the quad. College students love food—especially sweets.”

I nod at her words, taking a moment to flick my eyes down to her nametag. “Thank you, Bea. That’s a solid idea. Anyone else?”

Storm leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Have they considered media coverage? Getting their story out there could bring in more donations, more volunteers—maybe even corporate sponsors.”

I pause, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of my notes. “Media coverage?” I echo, keeping my tone neutral.

He nods, clearly earnest. “Think about it—local news, maybe even a feature in a national outlet. People respond to stories. If we can show what St.Clare’s is doing, put faces to the cause—anonymously, of course—it could make a huge difference.”

The room is dead silent now, all eyes on me. He continues.

“Listen, with a bake sale, you’re gonna net, what? $250 bucks? What Shae’s describing these women need is going to require a significant investment. Hundreds of thousands, to be honest.” He taps his knee as if calculating the EBITA for the initiative in his head.

“We’ll have to sell a lot of cupcakes if we want to make a dent in getting them what they actually need.”

He looks so eager, and I appreciate his effort, but this is one of the exact reasons why he needs to listen.

“I hear what you’re saying, but that won’t work.”

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

I clutch my notepad closer to my body. “Because these women are inhiding. They’ve left everything behind to escape their abusers. The last thing they want or need are cameras broadcasting their stories to the world.”

He tilts his head to the side, as if he’s having trouble comprehending my words. “But it doesn’t have to be like that,” he argues, his tone still calm but insistent. “We could focus on the shelter itself—the staff, the success stories—without putting anyone at risk.”

“And what happens when their abusers recognize the location from a photo or a video?” Yenn counters, her voice sharp as she picks up on the obvious issue. “What happens when one of those ‘success stories’ becomes a target again because we prioritized visibility over safety?”

Storm blinks, his mouth falling open before snapping shut. His eyes flick to mine before falling to the ground. He scratches his jaw, his expression serious.

“I know you mean well,” I say. “But these women didn’t come to St.Clare’s to be anyone’s headline. They came to survive.”

The words land between us and a heartbeat passes before he lifts his eyes to mine again.

Arresting me.

He leans back in his seat. “I see. I’m listening, Shae.”

I’m listening, Shae.

It’s a clear recall to our earlier conversation—the one when I invited him to this meeting. My edict was for him to see the world we’re in and listen to what’s really needed.

And now…I think he understands what I meant.