Single mothers accepting wrapped packages, thanking us with trembling voices. An elderly man clutching his warm blanket and groceries with shaking hands, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. A father who'd been laid off holding boxes of food like they were treasure, his wife standing frozen on their porch, hand over her mouth, while their daughter peeked out from behind them with wide eyes.
At every stop, the same pattern—stunned silence broken by choked thank-yous. People hugging us, gripping our hands. A grandmother raising her grandkids who just kept saying "God bless you" over and over, her voice breaking. A young couplewith a newborn—the baby wrapped in a thin blanket, their apartment barely heated—both parents standing speechless, holding their son between them while tears slid down their faces. An elderly woman living alone who invited us in for tea, her hands trembling as she touched the packages like she couldn't quite believe they were real.
By afternoon, my throat ached and Candi had given up trying to hide her streaming eyes.
"This is the best thing I've ever been part of," she said as we drove between stops. "Better than any viral video, any sponsorship deal. This actually matters."
"You made this possible."
She reached across the console and took my hand. “You gave me the opportunity.”
By five o'clock, we were back where the rest of the volunteers were regrouping. Everyone looked exhausted and radiant—the good kind of tired that came from meaningful work.
"Before everyone takes off," I said once we'd gathered, "Candi and I wanted to say thank you. You gave up your Christmas Eve for the sake of those who are struggling this season. That's what makes Hope Peak special."
Candi distributed the cookie tins we'd made—the ones from our midnight baking session. "Thank you for being part of this," she told each volunteer. "You made today possible."
After everyone left, Candi and I stood surrounded by empty shelves and discarded wrapping paper.
"We did it," she whispered.
"We really did." I pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Come on. Let's go get cleaned up. Service starts at six-thirty."
In the bathroom, we undressed each other, and I couldn't help but smile at the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the wrapping paper glitter somehow in her hair. The water was hot, steam filling the space, and I washed her hair while she leaned backagainst me. Her hands found mine when I worked the shampoo through, our fingers tangling together under the spray.
"Today was incredible," she murmured.
"Yeah. It really was." I rinsed the soap from her hair, pressing a kiss to her wet shoulder.
She turned in my arms, water cascading between us, and kissed me. The kiss deepened, her body pressing against mine, and for a moment I forgot we had somewhere to be.
"Church," she whispered against my lips, sounding as reluctant as I felt.
"Right. Church." I forced myself to step back. "We should finish getting ready."
"Probably." But her eyes were dark, and it took real willpower to turn off the water.
We dried off, and I opened my closet, pushing past the flannels and work shirts to the section I rarely touched anymore—my suits from Silicon Valley. I pulled out charcoal gray wool with a white dress shirt and burgundy tie. The suit still fit perfectly, though it felt strange after months of nothing but jeans and Henleys.
I was knotting my tie when Candi emerged from the bathroom doorway in her slip, pausing mid-step. "Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just—" Her eyes swept over me. "You look really good in a suit."
"Thanks." I fumbled with the tie. "It's been a while."
She crossed to me, gently batting my hands away. "Let me."
I stood still while she fixed the knot, her fingers deft and sure. This close, I could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose that her makeup didn't quite hide.
"There." She smoothed the fabric down my chest. "Perfect."
I watched her pull on a dress I'd never seen before—deep forest green, the kind of rich color that made her blonde hairlook like spun gold. The fabric skimmed her curves in a way that was elegant rather than revealing, the hemline hitting just above her knees. She'd left her hair down in soft waves around her shoulders, and she'd done something with her makeup that made her blue eyes even more striking.
"Wow," I managed. "Candi, you're... you look absolutely stunning."
Color rose in her cheeks. "It's not too much? I wasn't sure what people wear to church here. I haven't been since I was seventeen, and that was Easter service in Phoenix and I wore this sundress that my mom said was appropriate but my youth leader definitely gave me a look—" She was babbling, fidgeting with the strap of her dress. "I can change if it's—"
