“Coffee First, Then You”
Lena stirred her porridge lazily as Ethan burst into the kitchen, eyes wild with excitement.
“Lena, listen—I’ve cracked it!” he declared, flinging out his arms like a preacher. “A startup. A game-changer. A delivery platform for *everything*—socks to kebabs!”
“That already exists,” she said dryly.
“But ours is *different*,” he insisted, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. “AI-powered predictive delivery! The algorithm *anticipates* what you want before you even order!”
“So… it guesses?”
“Exactly! Revolution!”
“And where, pray tell, will this revolution happen?”
“Well… here. For now. Bootstrapping phase. A co-working space—on the kitchen table.”
“Ethan. *I* have a co-working space. It’s called a job. With a deadline.”
“Love, we won’t get in each other’s way. I’ve already rallied the lads—they’re on board. It’s happening!”
The “lads” turned out to be four.
At 9 a.m. the next morning, Lena froze in the doorway.
Three blokes and a girl in a hoodie that read *Freelance or Die* crowded the table, laptops devouring every inch. The air smelled like a barista’s fever dream. A whiteboard on the fridge bore the ominous title: *Hypothesis Growth: From Zero to Unicorn*.
“Morning!” chirped a bearded one.
“I *live* here,” Lena said.
“Brilliant! We do too—sort of,” Ethan grinned. “Meet Jamie, Liam, Sophie, and Oliver. The dream team!”
“For how long?”
“Until we take off.”
“And if you don’t?”
“There’s no *if*. Only *when*.”
Lena reached for the coffee—only to find matcha in the machine. A bath bomb floated in the kettle, reeking of citrus and existential dread. No milk. Just coconut water.
She retreated to the bedroom and shut the door.
“Work begins,” she muttered, “in hell.”
By day two, the kitchen was a warzone. Sophie’s laundry draped over the sofa. Jamie “optimized” the Wi-Fi. Oliver Zoomed investors from the counter, shirtless. And Ethan? Thrilled.
“We’re *this* close to a breakthrough!” he beamed. “Just a few tweaks, a bit of ad spend—”
“And a shred of privacy,” Lena snapped, fishing chia seeds from her mug. “Just *one* shred.”
“You’re allergic to creative chaos!”
“I’m allergic to *strangers* using my shower for conference calls!”
When Sophie Zoomed from the bathroom tile, Lena snapped.
First, sabotage. She “accidentally” unplugged the router. Jamie knocked five minutes later.
“Your Wi-Fi down?”
“Must be the provider. Acts of God, you know.”
Next, the password changed to *Silence_And_Sanctity*. Ethan flailed like a deflating balloon.
“Who *did* this? Sabotage!”
“Or a sign?”
“Lena, we had an investor call! He couldn’t *connect*!”
“Maybe because you’re pitching in *my living room*?”
“This is a *visionary hub*!”
“Then why am I the tenant?”
The final blow came Monday. The investor balked—especially when Sophie, towel-clad, yelled from the shower, *”Who took my shampoo?!”*
Ethan slumped onto the bed, defeated. “We crashed.”
“Ah. You noticed,” Lena shut her laptop. “I thought you’d moved in.”
“I wanted to build something—”
“You built a commune. With protein bars for currency.”
“Was it a bad plan?”
“It was *our home*. Now it’s a startup hostel.”
“Tell me what you need,” he whispered.
“Just *ask* first.”
—
A week later, peace returned. Sophie migrated to a co-working space. Jamie found a “proper job.” Oliver fled to Manchester. Liam vanished.
Ethan rented an office in *The Hive* and proudly texted Lena: *Wi-Fi. No socks on the chandelier.*
She opened the window. Silence. Coffee in her favorite mug. The kettle smelled of *nothing*.
“I’m home,” she said.
Then smiled.
And changed the Wi-Fi password to *Discuss_It_With_Me*.
—
Of course, it didn’t last.
“Lena, love!” Ethan barged in a week later with a bloke in thick glasses. “This is Noah. Genius dev. Need to borrow your monitor—just *five minutes*.”
“Your office has *one* lamp?”
“Lean operations, darling!”
An hour later, Noah coded. Ethan fried eggs. Trainers littered the rug.
“Moving in?” Lena asked.
“Don’t be daft! Just… cosy here. Smells like cinnamon!”
“That’s my candle, *Silent Rage*.”
Ethan grinned. “Love your humor.”
“Love *boundaries*,” she pointed at the door.
—
The “talk” came that night.
“I get it. I’m sorry,” Ethan said, knee bouncing. “But Noah’s harmless. Just *one* hour!”
“You’re doing the *same thing*.”
“It’s *not* the same!”
“No. It’s sneakier. One *harmless* person. One *tiny* project. Until—”
“Until what?”
“Until I’m renting my kitchen to your *brilliant* mates.”
He went quiet.
“I’m afraid to lose the idea,” he admitted.
“You’re losing *me*.”
—
Next day, Lena left. No drama. Just a note:
*Wi-Fi works. Kettle’s in the cupboard. I’m off-grid.*
Three days later, Ethan arrived at her co-working space, eyes pleading.
“I figured it out,” he said. “Thought the idea was everything. But it’s *space*. Yours. *Ours*.”
She smirked. “Did Noah write that?”
“No. Silence did.”
They walked home. Together.
Then Sophie showed up.
“Please,” she begged. “My neighbour raps *at dawn*. Two days?”
Lena sighed.
“No Zooms in the shower.”
Sophie gasped. “Wi-Fi password?”
Ethan and Lena exchanged glances.
*”Discuss_It_With_Me.”*
