Page 61 of Puck Your Feelings

Kane crosses his arms, and I zoom in on his face. He's got that little crease between his eyebrows that shows up when he's concentrating too hard on something. It's stupidly endearing.

Not that I'm noticing.

"There are too many options," he says finally, still eyeing at the menu like it personally offended him. "Who needs this many coffee variations? It's excessive."

"Says the man with twelve types of protein powder," I point out.

"That's different. That's practical."

"And this is delicious," Groover adds, having apparently made his pastry selection. "Stop overthinking it and pick something with sugar in it. Your body will thank you."

Kane's still studying the menu. River the barista is watching this unfold with fascinated horror. The rest of the coffee shop patrons have either left or are filming on their own phones without trying to hide it.

Excellent. More content.

"Okay," Kane says after what feels like seventeen years. "I'll order."

He steps up to the counter. I follow with the camera, keeping it trained on his face.

Something tells me this is going to be gold.

"Hi," Kane starts, and even that sounds stiff. "I would like a..." He glances back at the menu. "Venti iced caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra shot, light ice, and..." He trails off. We all lean in. "And... feelings?"

Dead silence.

River blinks. "I'm sorry?"

Kane's face does a journey through confusion, realization, and pure mortification in under two seconds. "Is that... not an option?"

Eleven six-foot-something professional athletes and one Mateo are milling around a coffee shop, collectively losing their shit.

Wall makes a sound like a dying whale. Petrov's laughing so hard he has to grab the counter for support. Groover's bent over, gasping for air.

Even Cap—stoic, professional Captain Washington—has his hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

I'm trying to keep the camera steady, which is hard, cause I'm also crying. Actual tears streaming down my face.

"Feelings," Ace manages between gasps. "He ordered feelings."

Kane's face is still cycling through approximately forty emotions—oh, irony—before landing somewhere between mortified and wanting to murder us all.

"I meant—" he starts, but Wall interrupts.

"Be patient," Wall tells River, who looks like he's considering demanding a raise. "He’s never ordered feelings before."

"I hate all of you," Kane announces to no one in particular.

"No you don't," I say, finally getting the camera under control. "You havefeelingsnow."

River, to his credit, manages to keep a straight face. "So... venti iced caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra shot, and light ice. No feelings. Got it."

"Thank you," Kane says with as much dignity as a man can muster after accidentally trying to order emotions at a coffee shop.

Five minutes later, we've all got our drinks—Kane clutching his like it might explode if he drops it—and we'reheading back outside. I'm still recording because this is gift just keeps on giving.

"Try it," I encourage, camera trained on his face.

Kane takes a cautious sip. His face immediately does something that I can only describe as experiencing regret on a molecular level. "This tastes like liquid diabetes."