°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･song: that don't impress me much-shania twain

Michael Townsend knew he had you in the bag the moment he laid eyes on you.

He's more on the flirty side, but he's never wanted anyone this much—you take up all his thoughts, and I mean that. He carved your initials into the leg of his wooden desk with a fork.

It's bad.

However, Michael's way of coping with his mental floundering? Acting super cocky and like...well...an ass, basically. He flaunts his cars, combs his hair when he's sure you're watching, and is convinced that everything he says flusters you to some degree.

You think he's cute.

You also think he's a dick.

They sort of go hand-in-hand.

Tonight, Michael's convinced you to go on a drive in his Porsche with him. He's got the top down, driving at a respectable speed and trying to act like his palms aren't sweating. He's dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks that are both precariously imperfect.

"Hey. Do you wanna try caviar?" Michael asks, leaning down a little to talk in your ear over the wind whipping around both of you.