This wasn’t the kind of story you tell girls as they grow up. There were no flowers, sweet letters, and kisses in the rain. There were no romantic walks or shared sunsets. Being Tig Trager’s ol’ lady wasn’t like any fairy tale and that was exactly why it made sense. Tig wasn’t a prince. He wasn’t even a knight. He was a scarred wolf who had learned to survive in a world where pain was commonplace and death came quicker than sleep.

He had eyes full of fire and a smile that could freeze blood. He laughed at things that broke other people’s minds. He loved the dirty, the raw, the imperfect. And that was the kind of love he offered. At first, you didn’t know where you stood. He didn’t give easy answers. One day he’d throw you on the bed like an animal, exposing every nerve, every insecurity. The next day he’d disappear without a word, leaving only the smell of leather and cigarette smoke.

He could go hours without saying a word, and then he would flood you with a monologue about war, about death, about the strange dreams that haunted him. But there were other moments. The ones that only you could see. The moments when his hand would rest uncertainly on the back of your neck, as if he was afraid you would fall apart.

When he would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and bury his face in your shoulder, not saying anything, but clenching his fingers as if you were the only thing anchoring him in this world. When he would look at you through the smoke of his cigarette, silent, but with that look as if you were more than just home. As if you were his salvation.

No one in the club commented on his choice. Each of the brothers knew that Tig was unstable, unpredictable, wild. But also deadly loyal. If he had to call someone “his,” it was only because there was something about that person that could withstand his storm. There was no tenderness in the classic sense of the word. Sometimes he'd throw a vest over your back without saying a word.

Sometimes he'd stand in the doorway of your room, dripping blood from some dirty task, and just look at you, asking if you were still there. If you were still waiting. And you were. Waiting. Even if you hated him at the moment. Because loving Tig wasn't a state of being. It was a decision. A daily decision to come back to him, even when he didn't believe he deserved it. It was getting inside his head, full of strange impulses, violence, and anxiety and not backing down.

Sometimes he'd come in the early morning, after another brawl, and just sit on the floor next to you. Without a word. Just resting his forehead against your knee. And you'd stroke his tousled hair, knowing it was his way of apologizing, of being close, of loving him. Being his ol' lady meant you knew his wounds. That you saw what was hidden behind that unpredictable smile. That you understood his silence as well as his laughter. And that you were ready to fight on his side, no questions asked.

It wasn't a fairy tale. But it was a true story. Brutal, raw, full of passion and chaos. Because if you're ol' lady Tig Trager that means you're no longer afraid of fire. Because that's what you're made of.