Maya named him Christian after the street where they found him.
For three months, Christian lived on her sofa. He was terrible at doing dishes and had never seen a microwave in his life, but he possessed an uncanny knowledge of foreign currencies, classical literature, and equestrian dressage.
Whenever Maya came home exhausted with swollen feet, Christian would have hot broth ready and quietly massage her shoulders with large, surprisingly gentle hands.
"You work too hard, Maya," he murmured one evening, his gray eyes softening as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Their faces were inches apart. The tension in the tiny kitchen was electric.
Before Maya could speak, headlights illuminated the alley below. The low rumble of armored V8 engines shook the floorboards.