Single mother reader who bumps into Akande Ogundimu and has absolutely no idea who he is. But her baby is a huge fan :)
Shushing and pushing your fussy baby in her stroller before she eventually began to cry, much to the displeasure of some of the patrons in the posh coffee shop you’d ducked into to avoid the rain. It had been a rough day, one where she’d promptly kicked her shoes off at every given chance.
Your baby’s pram was covered meticulously with rainproof material, but your hair slicked to your skin showed the neglect you’d put onto yourself to make sure she stayed completely dry. Still, she ignored your efforts to babble and fuss, leaning out from under the cover with apple sauce stained fingers to promptly grab the sleeve of the man who’d just passed you by.
Clad in a pristine white suit jacket, dark slacks and sunglasses that hid his eyes. Everything about him spelled expensive, and your heart just about dropped seeing the mucky stain Penelope had smeared onto his arm. You swallow, expecting him to curse you out, mock you, or even simply just bill you for his dry cleaning. One that would surely cost a month of your rent.
But instead his lips curl into a small smile, and he responds to your daughter’s insistent tugging by crouching to meet her face to face. Her chubby cheeks on full display as her tears promptly stop and a gummy smile takes over her lips.
“Hello, little one.” He rumbles, extending a giant finger towards Penelope, who promptly grabs ahold with a cheerful squeal. “Are you giving your lovely mother a hard time?”
You blink, almost flustered. That was the first time she’d been quiet all day. All the while Penelope squeaks and waves her tiny fists below, the best little wingwoman you could ever ask for.
“She likes you.” You eventually croak out, expression sheepish. You’re sure he’s analysing the bags under your eyes behind those sunglasses. “I’m so sorry about your jacket.”
He smiles again, rising to his full height and you can almost swear you feel your knees giving out.
“Nonsense.” Akande dismisses, before zeroing in on the sorry, sodden state of your painfully thin jacket. “It’s cold out. Please, let me buy you something to drink. And perhaps a treat, for the little one.”
And so you spend the rest of that evening getting to know Akande. Not Doomfist, of whom you didn’t even recognise.
You let him hold your baby, bounce her, fuss over her and wipe the chocolate from her nose after she’d promptly smushed the cake pop he’d bought her into her entire face.
He was a natural born provider. And handsome, too. Going home with his number was simply just the cherry on the cake, your belly fluttery and warm in a way you hadn’t felt since long before Penelope was born.
You sigh fondly as you put her down for the night. Thumbing the napkin that Akande had written his number on, a smidgen of chocolate smeared on the tapered corner. A smile on your sleeping babies face. Warm, fed and happy.
She really was your lucky Penny.
