*First Coffee, Then You*
Sasha burst into the kitchen like a man possessed, eyes sparkling with the manic energy of a lottery winner. “Emily, listen to this—I’ve had an idea! A *brilliant* one. A delivery platform for *everything*—socks, kebabs, you name it!”
“That already exists,” Emily muttered, stirring her porridge without looking up.
“But ours is different,” he declared, pointing dramatically at the ceiling. “Smart delivery—with *AI*! The algorithm predicts what you want *before* you order. Genius, right?”
“You mean… mind-reading?”
“Exactly! It’s revolutionary.”
“And where, pray tell, are you planning to do this?”
“Um… here. For now. Call it a kitchen coworking space.”
“Sasha. *I* have a coworking space too. It’s called my *job*. And I have a deadline.”
“Darling, we won’t be in each other’s way! I’ve already texted the lads—they’re game. It’ll be *epic*.”
The “lads” turned out to be four people.
The next morning at 9 AM, Emily walked into the kitchen and froze.
Three blokes and a girl in a hoodie that read *Freelance or Die* were crammed around the table. The air smelled like a hipster coffee festival, laptops covered every surface, and the fridge was now home to a chart titled *”Hypotheses: From Delusion to Dreams.”*
“Morning!” chimed one of the beards.
“I live here,” Emily said flatly.
“Brill! Us too. Well, sort of,” Sasha winked. “Meet Dave, Tom, Chloe, and Archie. The dream team!”
“For how long?”
“Until we make it big.”
“And if you don’t?”
“There *is* no ‘if.’ Only ‘when.'”
Emily went to pour coffee, only to find someone had stuffed matcha into the coffee machine. The kettle had an unidentified bath bomb bobbing inside—orange-scented despair, by the smell. The milk was gone, replaced by a lonely carton of coconut water.
She retreated to the bedroom and shut the door.
“Workday starts now…” she muttered. “*In hell.*”
The next day, Emily put on her headphones and opened her laptop. A minute later—knocking.
“Em, have you seen my Mac charger?”
“No.”
“Also, could you maybe type a bit quieter? Brainstorm in progress.”
“It’s a *keyboard*. It’s designed for typing.”
“Yeah, but we’re workshopping how to monetise delivering syrniki before breakfast.”
“*Before* breakfast? What’s happening now?”
“Pre-breakfast prep!”
A week later, Emily realised her flat had become a coworking hub, and she was the uninvited guest.
Chloe air-dried her laundry in the living room. Dave kept resetting the router without asking. Archie held Zoom calls with clients at the kitchen table. And Sasha? Thrilled.
“We’re *this* close to a breakthrough! Just need a few case studies and a bit of marketing!”
“And personal space. A smidge. A crumb,” Emily said, pouring coffee from her mug—now inexplicably full of chia seeds.
“You’re just not used to creative energy!”
“I’m used to *silence*. And my home being *mine*. Not… an office with mint air freshener and one shared charger.”
When Chloe took a Zoom call *in the shower* on Friday—tiles as her backdrop—Emily decided: enough.
First, subtle sabotage. She “accidentally” reset the Wi-Fi. Within minutes, Dave knocked.
“Your internet working?”
“Nope. Provider issues, I guess.”
“*Now*? We’ve got investors on Zoom!”
“Funny, that. Almost like the universe is sending a message.”
The next day, Emily changed the Wi-Fi password. The network name? *”Peace_and_Quiet.”* Sasha panicked, laptop in hand.
“Who changed it? This is sabotage!”
“Or a sign?”
“Em, we had a pitch! The investor couldn’t connect!”
“Maybe because you’re in the *living room*, not an office?”
“This is our *home*, not a workspace!”
“Then why do I feel like a tenant?”
On Monday, disaster struck. The investor backed out, citing “unprofessional vibes”—especially after Chloe stormed out of the shower mid-call, towel-clad, yelling, *”Who took my shampoo?!”*
Sasha trudged into the bedroom, silent. Sat on the bed. Kicked off his slippers.
“We screwed up.”
“Ah, noticed that, did you?” Emily closed her laptop. “I thought you’d signed up for this chaos forever.”
“I wanted to build something…”
“And built a dormitory. With the vibe of a scout camp and a diet of protein bars.”
“Was it a bad plan?”
“It was still *our home*. But I vanished in it.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Would you have listened?”
He didn’t.
“Maybe… we could rent an office?” he whispered.
“*You’re* suggesting this?”
“Yeah. Proper setup. Team, but no ‘brainstorms’ on the toaster.”
“And the kettle?”
“New one. Yours. Guarded.”
“And the router?”
“Scout’s honour.”
A week later, the living room was a living room again. Chloe moved to a coworking space. Dave got a “proper job.” Archie fled to Brighton. Tom ghosted.
Sasha rented a desk at *The Hive* business centre and proudly sent Emily a photo: *”Wi-Fi included. No socks on the chandelier.”*
Emily opened the window. Silence. Coffee in her favourite mug. The kettle no longer smelled of citrus and existential dread.
“I’m home,” she said aloud.
Then smiled.
And updated the Wi-Fi password: *”Discuss_With_Me_First.”*
A week passed.
The flat’s soundtrack was back to the rhythmic *drip* of the leaky tap. A luxury, after coffee grinders, brainstorm shouts, shower-Zooms, and rogue matcha in the teapot.
Emily sipped coffee by the window, laptop open. The dog snored beside her. The router on the wall bore a sticky note: *”DO NOT TOUCH.”* Sasha’s handwriting. He’d sworn—no more *”open-plan insanity.”*
He kept his word. Mostly.
“Em, hi!” Sasha called from the hallway. “Just popping in for a sec!”
She turned. There he stood—with some bespectacled bloke in a tech hoodie.
“Meet Anton. Developer. Absolute legend. We just need to demo something on a bigger screen. Five minutes, tops.”
“Which screen?”
“Yours? It’s, uh… crisp. And the office lighting’s dodgy.”
“Your ‘office’ has one light?”
“Start-up life, love. We adapt!”
“You *promised*—”
“Fifteen minutes, swear!”
An hour later, Emily emerged. Anton was on her laptop. Sasha was frying eggs. White trainers sat *on the rug.*
“Moving in, are we?”
“Course not! Just… bad lighting. And your place smells like cinnamon buns.”
“That’s my candle. *‘Silent Rage.’*”
Sasha grinned.
“Always with the jokes. Love that about you.”
“And I always have *boundaries*,” she pointed to the door. “Fifteen minutes was thirty ago. Exit’s there.”
That evening, the *talk.*
“I get it, you’re angry,” Sasha said, perched on the bed’s edge. “But he’s a sound bloke. One hour. We weren’t loud—didn’t even make tea!”
“You’re already justifying, just like last time.”
“You think I want the flat to double as an office again?!”
“No. I think you’re *sneaking* work back in. Bit by bit. One person. One laptop. One ‘quick thing.’”
“It’s not the same!”
“Worse. Last time, at least you were honest. Now it’s like a *virus*.”
“A *virus*?”
“Yeah. And soon it’s strangers in my kitchen, their ideas on my desk, their socks in the sink.”
Sasha went quiet.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know. But you *do*. You’re so scared of losing the idea, you’re losing *me*.”
Next morning, Emily left for a coworking space. No drama. Just packed and walked out.
She paid too much for a noisy, plasticky desk across town. But there was no Sasha. No chaos.
He realised it was serious when he found her note:
*”Wi-Fi works. Kettle in cupboard. I’m off-grid.”*
Three days later, he arrived at her workspace with flowers and puppy-dog eyes.
“IAnd as the door clicked shut behind Chloe—just for *two* days, they swore—Emily sipped her coffee, smiled at the chaos, and whispered, *”Password’s still the same.”*
