The door wasn’t locked. It never was, not for Bobby.

He gave a soft knock anyway—two quick raps with his knuckles, more of a polite warning than a request—then pushed it open with his shoulder.

“Hey,” Bobby called into the apartment, casual. “It’s me.”

His voice was light, like always, like someone showing up with nothing on his mind but a good evening and maybe a bottle of wine—which he was holding, half-wrapped in a brown paper bag. It wasn’t the good stuff, but it looked thoughtful enough.