"I want to bottle you," Peter whispered into her ear. His warm breath tickling her, masking the implications for a moment.
Grace pulled back to bring his face into focus, their bodies entwined in that post-fuck-kind-of-way.
"What?" she said in a pitch that didn't hide her sudden fear. "Like Dr Mangela or that Japanese Unit 731?"
Now it was his turn to flinch, taken aback by how quickly his attempt at romance turned into proposed genocide.
Both of them thought that this was a red flag. For Peter, it was Grace's ability to twist something out of nothing in the same time it took a Tesla Model X to go from naught to a hundred. For Grace, it was the psycho-like way he proposed to stuff her into a bottle and place her like some trophy on his mantel place.
Grace extricates her foot from somewhere. She wants to drag the sheet with her, just as the beautiful women in the movies do, but it was twisted beneath Peter's sweaty body. A moment ago, she'd been happy to have his skin against hers, but now she just wants to leave. She craves the cool crisp early morning air to sober her up.
Peter gently grabs her hand, allowing her to slide away. Grace stops, her fingertips hovering above his. They both feel the connection between them.
"I meant I want to smell you when you aren't here. I hate it when you leave. I feel the emptiness, an emptiness I never knew existed until that first morning when you left to go to work. And I thought, if I could..."
Grace forgot all about the thoughts of being pickled and leant in and kissed him because she felt that same loneliness when he wasn't there.