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Another student raises their hand, suggesting a silent auction with donations from alumni. I jot down their idea and their name, Branson, when Kurt’s hand surges in the air. Taking a deep breath, I face him.

“Yes, Kurt?” I try to paste as genuine of a smile on my face as possible.

“I’ve got it!” he says, spreading his hands wide as if presenting his vision for the next skyscraper. “Wet T-shirt contest.”

Everyone in the room is silent, and I spend a solid ten seconds blinking and contemplating how to handle his suggestion.

“Um—”

“Look, sex sells, right? So let’s get sexy with it. A bake sale, an auction. That’s small potatoes. Wet T-shirt? A solid choice.” He slouches in his seat, slinging one arm over the back of the chair to his right as he reclines and spreads his legs so wide the people next to him shift away.

“I don’t think a wet T-shirt contest is right for this,” I offer diplomatically. Turning away from him, I don’t make it an inch before he leans forward and says, “Bikini mud wrestling, then.”

Yenn not-so-subtly shouts, “Boy!” which causes me to shoot my gaze toward her. I need ten sign-ups, and Kurt makes ten…but I want him gone.

“We could get on that now and secure the quad before the weather changes. Or we can use the basketball?—”

“Get out.”

We all turn to look in the direction of the interruption, and I’m the most stunned out of everyone to realize it’s Storm who’s speaking.

“C’mon, Sandoval, I’m just having a little fun?—”

“Get.” Storm rises from his chair. “Out.”

When he moves to the center of the circle with me, I’m grateful for his strong presence.

“What Shae is doing here is serious work. Important work. And you’re disrespecting her and everyone here with your attitude and clearly out-of-touch suggestions. So I am telling you to leave.”

The look on Storm’s face would be terrifying if it were anyone else—he looks like he’d gleefully snap Kurt’s neck with his bare hands. They have a stare-off; Storm towers over him.

All for offending me.

After a beat, Kurt relents, rising and heading toward the door.

“Have fun with the poors,” he says, and there’s a collective gasp from everyone as he slams out of the room.

The silence is heavy in the wake of his departure, and I’m grateful when Yenn breaks the tension.

“Shae. Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I got something for his ass.”

The others in the room—besides Storm and me—begin to chuckle, and the corner of my mouth lifts. The thing is, Yenn’s serious. I’m sure she does have something for Kurt—something he won’t like.

“Okay,” I say, trying to brighten the mood. “Let’s move on.” Storm returns to his seat, and I move over to the rolling whiteboard and grab an Expo marker.

“Let’s talk goals,” I begin, my voice steady as I write the word in bold black letters.

But my hands are trembling.

I take a deep breath and glance around the room as ideas start to roll in again. Bea nods enthusiastically, Branson scribbles something on his notepad, and Yenn sits back with a satisfied smirk, clearly already plotting Kurt’s demise.

And then, there’s Storm.

He’s back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight as if he’s still bristling from the exchange. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something in his expression—fierce and unyielding—that sends a jolt through me.

What the hell just happened?

“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “St.Clare’s needs three specific things from us: tangible resources like clothes and toiletries; career support like résumé workshops, financial planning sessions; and legal aid connections. Let’s start brainstorming how we can address those needs.”