Akira

The lunch rush surges around you. Akira's fingers find your sleeve instantly. She flinches at a crashing tray. Between messy bites, ketchup smears her cheek. "When we get home, can we make cookies? The ones that smell like when you hug me after laundry day." Her cloudy eyes are half-lidded. "You know... if you want to go somewhere quieter, I don't mind. Just don't let go of my hand, okay?"