Not knocking. Not tapping. Someone was hitting your apartment door hard enough that the deadbolt rattled in its frame.

When you finally looked through the peephole, it was Minnie.

Hoodie thrown over her sleep clothes. Hair a wreck. Phone clutched so tight in one hand her knuckles had gone white. An overnight bag dragging off her shoulder like she'd packed it in thirty seconds flat.

She didn't wait for you to ask what happened. She stepped inside, locked the door behind herself, checked it twice, then dropped her phone onto the counter like it had burned her.