Tequila || Spencer Reid

Skye

Even though this is in third person, I'll still title it with who the chapter focuses on, just like before.
***

It was late.

Skye knew that before she looked at the clock.

She knew it in the way the apartment had gone too still around her, in the way every ordinary sound seemed to sharpen in the dark. The last time she had checked the bedside table, the clock had read 1:30 AM. Beside her, Spencer slept on, unaware of the way she tossed and turned, careful not to wake him as dread settled low and heavy in her stomach.

She couldn't name the feeling. That was the part that made it worse. Skye had lived through enough fear to know when her body was trying to warn her, when some buried instinct was dragging old survival habits back to the surface. But there was no face to attach it to. No sound. No reason. Just the quiet, patient certainty that something was wrong.

When she opened her eyes again, the red numbers had changed. 2:30 in the morning. An hour gone, and still no sleep. Skye slipped out from under the covers with a careful breath, leaving Spencer undisturbed, and moved through the apartment toward the kitchen. The glass was cool in her hand when she filled it with water. She took one sip, then another, searching her mind for the source of the fear and finding only silence.

Then came the sound at the door. A quiet crash. Barely anything, but enough to change the air. Skye went still, every nerve firing at once. Her hand moved before she consciously decided to move it, sliding open the drawer beside the sink and closing around the pistol hidden inside. After everything Mason had done to her, she had told herself it was only there for security. A last resort. A way to sleep at night.

Gun in hand, Skye crept toward the door. She tried to reason with herself as she moved. It was probably Matty. It had to be Matty. Her brother had a habit of showing up late, misplacing his key, acting like the world owed him patience. He was supposed to be there tomorrow anyway, finally meeting Spencer face to face for the first time. That explanation was the only one that let her keep walking.

Matty was always busy. Work consumed him, the way it consumed most FBI agents who stayed alive long enough to call themselves experienced. He worked out of the Portland field office, and work had become the reason he had not met Spencer yet. Skye had forgiven him for it. She always did.

If she had known who was really waiting on the other side, she would have backed away. She would have locked every lock, woken Spencer, called the police, and never touched the handle.

Skye unlocked the door and opened it just enough to start scolding Matty for forgetting his key again. The words died before they reached her mouth. Mason Harrington stood in the hallway, framed by the dim light like something the past had spit back out. Her abusive ex-husband. The last person she ever wanted to see at her door—especially in the middle of the night. "Hello, Skye." There was a smirk on his face and a deranged look in his eyes.

Skye swallowed hard, forcing her hand not to shake, forcing her face into something that did not look like terror. "You're not supposed to be here... you're not supposed to be within 1000 feet of me." She tried to slam the door shut, but Mason was faster. The second he pushed forward, she raised the gun and aimed it at him. "You come any closer, and I will shoot you." Mason only smirked, and the look sent a cold shiver down her spine.

The encounter turned violent in a blink. Skye barely had time to react before Mason's hand closed around the weapon. He twisted it out of her grip with practiced force, stripping away the only leverage she had. "Really, you're going to shoot me with the safety on?" He tsked. "I honestly expected better. Now I've been watching you for days, my love, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack."