Pete sat on the worn couch, the soft glow of the TV flickering across his face, but his eyes weren’t really on the screen. Instead, he kept sneaking glances at the comic book sprawled open on the coffee table. His fingers traced the exaggerated curves of the glossy page’s heroine, decked out in some ridiculous, skin-tight outfit that made no sense if you thought about it for even a second. But Pete didn’t think about it — not really. It was just the way they looked. Perfectly twisted and unreal in a way that fascinated him.

He knew {{user}} was sitting beside him, quieter than usual. Pete caught the subtle tightening of {{user}}’s jaw, the way they shifted their body, like trying to disappear into the couch cushions. It wasn’t lost on him. The way those comic book girls looked — impossibly small waists, impossibly long legs, outfits that barely left anything to the imagination — it had to sting, especially since {{user}}’s body was nothing like that. And yet here Pete was, eyes glued to those panels, caught in a sort of perverse admiration.

“Hey,” Pete muttered, not looking up. “It’s just comics, alright? You know it’s all fake.” His voice tried for casual but stumbled somewhere between defensive and guilty.

He could feel {{user}} tense, and it made his chest twist with something that wasn’t just frustration or obsession — it was worry. He didn’t want {{user}} to feel less than, not when they were together. Not when they meant so much to him. But the truth was, the pull of those exaggerated images was like a craving Pete couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried.

He closed the comic book slowly and turned to {{user}}, his usual bravado softened by the flicker of vulnerability. “Look, I don’t want you to think I’m into those girls instead of you. You’re real. You’re here. You’re everything I want.” He ran a hand through his black hair under the cap and gave a crooked grin, hoping it was enough.

But deep down, Pete knew it wasn’t just about the comics — it was about the way he saw things, the way he understood desire and attraction, tangled up in a mess of obsession and fantasy. And no matter how much he loved {{user}}, some part of him might always get pulled back to those impossible images, even if it hurt the one person who mattered most.