“Matcha Latte with extra ice for VB!”

The barista’s voice ricocheted across the café, bouncing off exposed brick walls and overpriced motivational quotes. The place was packed to the brim, all elbows and espresso fumes, laptops fighting for plug points, and at least three people pretending to read while shamelessly eavesdropping on strangers.

She lifted the pastel green cup high, scanning the sea of caffeine addicts.

And then, instead of one civilized human stepping forward, two marched up like contestants in a game show nobody signed up for. They stopped mid-stride when they noticed each other.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“Okay… who is VB?” she asked, already regretting her life choices.

“I am.”

They said it together. Perfect sync. Perfect timing. Perfect confusion.

They turned to look at each other.

The girl frowned first.

“Excuse me?” she said, brows knitting dramatically. “That is my order.”

The guy did not flinch. He simply blinked at her, calm as a monk in meditation class. “I am fairly certain it is mine. I ordered a Matcha Latte with extra ice.”

“So did I!” she shot back, her wavy hair swishing like it had its own background music. “And she called my name.”

“She called VB,” he corrected, voice calm enough to lower blood pressure. “Which happens to be me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is your name?”

He pressed his lips together for a thoughtful second, as if debating whether this conversation deserved his biography. “That is irrelevant. VB is my signature. That is what she called.”

“Oh, we are playing cryptic now?” she shot back. “Fantastic.”

With dramatic flair, she yanked the ID card hanging from her neck and held it inches from his face. “Look carefully. V B. Short for Vibino.” She released it and it bounced back against her powder blue shirt with a sharp little clink. “Now, what is your name?”

He did not budge... Rather it seemed like he was mildly entertained.

She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly filed a complaint and stepped closer. Before he could react, she grabbed his ID card to inspect it herself.

“John,” she read aloud, then looked up at him, unimpressed. “I do not see a V. I do not see a B. I see four letters that are definitely J, O, H, and N.”

He calmly retrieved his ID and tapped the bottom line with one finger. “Last name. Keep reading.”

She squinted. “Valiya… veliya… para… vali-para-bumble?”

“Valiyaparambil,” he supplied, smooth as silk and clearly enjoying this. “Long form of VB.”

She stared at him, offended on a spiritual level.

The barista, who had clearly had enough of this amateur courtroom drama, interjected. “Can I see the bill? There is a token number. That will settle it.”

“Seventeen,” John replied instantly, glancing at the receipt in his hand like a man who believed in documentation.

Vibino froze.

Her purse suddenly became a black hole of doom. She rummaged through lip balm, hand sanitizer, tangled earphones, receipts from last century, and what might have been a mint that had seen better days.

“Hold on,” she muttered, digging deeper as if she might unearth ancient treasure.

The barista checked the screen. “This is order number seventeen.”

John lifted the cup with quiet triumph.

“Wait. What is my number?” Vibino demanded, already bracing for betrayal.

“Twenty four, ma’am.”

The silence that followed could have powered a small village.

Vibino looked at John. Then at the cup. Then back at John.

He took a leisurely sip. Calmly and extremely unbothered. The audacity was almost artistic.

She straightened her shoulders, summoning what dignity she could salvage. “Enjoy your… chlorophyll,” she said tightly, turning on her heel.

He watched her leave, then called after her, almost lazily, “For what it’s worth, you could have just asked nicely.”

She paused for half a second but did not turn around.

Pride was a stubborn companion.

John shrugged and walked the opposite direction, sipping his matcha like it was liquid vindication.

Truth be told, he would not have minded giving it to her if she had simply asked. He was not heartless. But arrogance had strutted into the arena first, and now arrogance could wait for order number twenty four.

Some battles were fought with swords.

Some fought with Matcha.