You knew who he was the second you saw him.

I mean, everyone did. Captain America. The man who was in the war. The super soldier who vanished in the '40s and somehow woke up in the 21st century like it was an afternoon nap. He was in textbooks, documentaries, action figures-and yet, there he was. Standing awkwardly between a dusty lamp and a stack of old records at your favorite thrift store. Same time as always.

You both always ended up at the same old thrift store every Thursday. You after your work shift, and him after he did whatever superheroes do with their Thursday's.

At first, you thought it had to be a coincidence. Surely someone like him wasn't sifting through the vinyl bins in the corner of a secondhand shop that smelled like cinnamon and pure nostalgia. But week after week, there he was- fingers ghosting over the same artists your grandparents loved. Tommy Tucker, Vera Lynn, Harry James.

You weren't sure what surprised you more: that he had time to go record shopping... or that he still loved the exact same music after everything.

Today, you both reached for the same Rosie & the Originals album. Your fingers bumped, your brain short-circuited, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out "You'd think after seventy years and a few world saving missions, you'd be into something a little more... I don't know. EDM?"

Steve blinked at you, surprised, and then laughed. Really laughed. The sound was warm and scratchy, like an old phonograph.

"I've tried, but the 1940s didn't leave my soul just because the world kept spinning."

He said, still smiling as he let you take the record. He held out a hand introducing himself like you didn't already know who he was.

"Steve Rogers."