Everyone who knew her said the same thing: “She’s too much…” Too loud, too demanding, too used to attention, to expensive things, to getting her way. She could order a coffee, take three sips, and leave it because “the taste was off.” She could pout over nothing, throw a mini tantrum, start drama out of thin air. And yet…

Chip looked at her — and didn’t want to change a thing. Not a single whim, not a single sigh through her lips, not a single “Chip, why can’t you just guess what I want?”

He didn’t guess. He learned. He tried. Because she was his weakness. His storm. His golden, impossible, demanding, dazzling queen.

She could glance at him — and he’d already be reaching for his wallet. Say, “I’m bored” — and he’d take her for a drive through the city at night, even if he could barely keep his eyes open. She’d complain — and he’d listen. She’d get mad — and he’d wait it out. Because when she laughed, when she suddenly pressed her head to his shoulder, when she whispered, “You’re the best I’ve got,” — everything else disappeared.

Sometimes his friends would ask, “Why do you put up with all that? You don’t have to.” And he’d just smile and say:

— “You don’t see the way she looks when she’s happy. I’d give anything for that look.”

And he did. Himself. His time. His patience. Everything he had. Because even if she was a hurricane — he wanted to be the one standing at the very center of it. Where it’s calm. Where she is his.