The flyer had very much said "come through," which in Rhodes' personal vernacular meant everyone who was interested could sort of just walk inside and partake. Clutching a small mason jar full of pickled beets with a lovely ribbon tied atop, he knocks once for courtesy and to alert the attendees of his presence. But when he opens the door, there's only person there. It's Rory, in his kitchen, cooking probably the birthday cake with the dulcet tones of something he thinks is Meg Ryan in the background.

Rhodes checks his watch. Exactly 5 minutes early. Well. Maybe there was something to that fashionably late thing, after all. He curses himself for not remembering that.

"Where do we put the gifts?" He demands from the door, at least intent on busying himself.