Maya hated the cafe's loud clatter - the hiss of the espresso machine, the hum of conversations, and the sharp scrape of chairs against the floor. She came here every Sunday only for the corner table by the window, a quiet spot where she could lose herself in her sketchbook.

That Sunday, however, her peace was interrupted. Someone was at her table.

It wasn't a tourist or a family - it was a man, sitting with a laptop and a stack of papers. He had dark hair that fell into his eyes as he typed furiously. Maya hesitated. The cafe was crowded, and her usual escape was taken.

She approached cautiously.

"Excuse me," she said, awkwardly clearing her throat. "I usually sit here."

The man looked up, startled. His eyes - warm and brown - met hers. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, already gathering his things.

"No, it's fine," she blurted out, surprising herself. "We can share."

His lips quirked into a small smile. "Deal."

For an hour, they sat in silence. Maya sketched, and the man typed, occasionally pausing to sip his coffee. She stole glances at him, noting the way he muttered to himself while editing, his face a mix of concentration and frustration.

"Writer's block?" she asked, surprising herself again.

He laughed softly. "More like editor's regret. What about you? Artist's block?"

Maya shook her head and turned her sketchbook to show him a half-finished drawing of the cafe.

"That's incredible," he said, leaning closer.

They started talking - his name was Arjun, a freelance journalist. He loved exploring new stories, which explained the stack of papers. She admitted she preferred the stillness of her art over the chaos of words.

Over the next weeks, the corner table became their spot. Maya would sketch, and Arjun would write, their quiet companionship growing into something deeper. They learned each other's quirks - Arjun's need for a second coffee before noon, Maya's habit of humming when she focused.

One rainy afternoon, as the cafe emptied and the sky turned silver, Arjun set down his laptop and looked at her.

"Maya," he began, voice soft but steady, "this table feels empty when you're not here. My days feel empty when you're not around."

Maya blinked, her heart quickening. She set her pencil down.

"Then maybe," she said, her lips curving into a shy smile, "we should make it our table - always."

And just like that, in a noisy little cafe, love found its way into the quiet corner of their lives.