The Spark That Didn’t Die
SHIELD training was designed to break people. Not in a cruel way—not like HYDRA—but in the way that forced you to tear down the soft, human edges of yourself and rebuild from the bones up. It stripped you of your ego. Of comfort. Of sleep. Wake-up calls at 0500. Cold showers. Ten-mile runs before breakfast. Combat drills that left you with bruises in places you didn’t even know could bruise. Psychological tests that cracked you open just to see what spilled out.
Willow hated most of it.
She hated the barking instructors and the ice-slick pavement during early runs. Hated the buzzcuts and jargon and how everyone said “copy that” instead of “okay.” Hated push-ups with the fire of a thousand suns. And above all, she hated being treated like she was cheating—like magic was a crutch, like it didn’t count. Everything she’d bled and fought for had been handed to her in a silver cauldron.
But she pushed through.
Because she wanted to prove them wrong.
Because she had something to prove.
And, if she was honest with herself—if she peeled back the sharp-edged armor and looked—because she wanted to see her again.
Haley Blake didn’t speak unless she had to. Two weeks into her arrival, she hadn’t so much as joined a group lunch. She trained alone. Ate alone. Slept in a shared dorm but kept her bed made military-tight, not a wrinkle in sight, as if she didn’t sleep at all. Her file was redacted to hell. Her background is stamped with all the subtle signs of something dangerous: “high-value asset,” “reassignment,” and “behavioral monitoring in progress.”
The HYDRA rumors stuck like oil. Some recruits steered clear, pretending she wasn’t there. Others circled like flies to fire, trying to impress her—showing off in sparring, cracking jokes within earshot, offering coffee and compliments like she was some rare wolf that could be coaxed into petting distance.
She ignored all of them.
Except Willow.
Not that Haley sought her out. She didn’t. But sometimes, her gaze lingered just a second too long. Sometimes she passed close enough in the hallway to brush shoulders, and Willow’s skin would buzz like she’d touched a power line. Sometimes, across the mess hall, Haley would glance up—just once—and it felt like a secret.
Willow had never felt that before. Not for anyone. Not like this.
She told herself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Fascination, maybe. An overactive imagination. But it kept happening. A flicker here, a spark there. And it was doing things to her. Dangerous things.
It was during sparring drills that everything unraveled.
“Pair up,” barked Agent May, arms crossed like a judgment. “One-on-one combat. No powers. No excuses. Try not to die.”
Willow groaned internally. She wasn’t bad at hand-to-hand, but it wasn’t her thing. Her strengths lay in energy and instincts. Going into a fight with no magic felt like tying both hands behind her back and saying, sure, throw the first punch.
May’s gaze swept the group. “You’re with Blake.”
Willow’s brain short-circuited.
She turned slowly, like maybe if she moved too fast, she’d scare herself off the mat. Haley was already there—silent, composed, dangerous in the way wolves are dangerous when they don’t bare their teeth but you know they could. Her stance was sharp and fluid like the ground knew to hold steady beneath her.
Willow’s stomach flipped so hard it felt like a betrayal.
This was fine. This was so fine.
She stepped forward, aiming for casual, and promptly tripped on the mat's edge.
“Fuck,” she muttered, flailing slightly and catching herself on instinct.
Haley blinked. “You good?”
Willow waved her off like she hadn’t just tried to eat the floor. “Yep. Totally. Ready to die—go. I meant to go. Let’s fight.”
A pause. Haley tilted her head, expression unreadable. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m—”
She lunged, mostly to shut herself up.
To her credit, she lasted four seconds.
Haley twisted, ducked, and swept her legs like gravity meant nothing. Willow hit the mat with a sound that knocked the air out of her lungs, and before she could react, Haley was on her—pinning her arms with one fluid motion, gaze calm, unmoving. Her breath was steady. Her body was warm. The scent of her hit Willow like a quiet explosion—smoke, pine, something familiar and wild.
Willow blinked up, stunned and breathless.
“You telegraph,” Haley said, voice low. “Your shoulders move before your hips. Easy to read.”
Willow’s heart pounded. She didn’t know how to answer. “Okay,” she breathed.
“You alright?” Haley asked, not moving.
“Yep.” Her voice cracked halfway through the word.
Haley released her, stood, and held out a hand. Willow hesitated only half a second before taking it. Her fingers slid into Haley’s, her palm fitting awkwardly but not unpleasantly.
She tried not to think about how Haley’s grip was firm and steady, or how her hand was warm in a way that felt… grounding.
_______________________________________
That night, Willow couldn’t stop pacing. Sparks crackled at her fingertips as she stared at herself in the mirror, eyes too wide, heart still stupid.
“Okay,” she told her reflection. “It’s not a thing. She’s just… intense. And focused. And maybe smells like the inside of a forest dream. And has arms that could crush a boulder. But it’s fine. It’s totally—ugh.”
She threw herself onto the bed with a groan, face buried in her pillow.
This was a problem.
And then it got worse.
They kept being partnered. Strategy sims. Stealth drills. Tactical escapes. It wasn’t subtle. Daisy swore it was the algorithm.
Willow didn’t buy it for a second.
One night, they got stuck on a shared watch shift—four hours on the upper level of the compound, walking the same dark hallway back and forth like ghost wardens.
Willow didn’t complain. She had plans to silently combust while standing next to Haley Blake in a tactical vest.
Haley stood at the far end, still as a statue, eyes fixed forward as she could see through walls. She looked cinematic, like the kind of character who walked away from explosions without turning around.
“You always this quiet?” Willow asked, pretending to stretch, pretending not to stare.
Haley glanced over. “Do you want me to lie?”
Willow smiled, despite herself. “No. I like it. Makes you seem all… mysterious and broody.”
“I’m not broody.”
“You totally are. It’s your whole brand.”
Haley turned back to the shadows. “That’s not intentional.”
“Still works for you.”
Silence settled like a fog.
Then Haley said, without turning, “You spark when you’re nervous.”
Willow blinked. “What?”
“Your hands. You don’t notice it. Just a flicker, when you’re unsure.” She paused. “You did it the first time we sparred.”
Willow looked down. Sure enough, her fingers shimmered faintly, little arcs of gold flicking between her knuckles.
“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.
Haley turned to her fully. Her expression softened, just barely. “You’re not what I expected.”
Willow swallowed hard. “What did you expect?”
Haley shrugged, slow and careful. “Something colder. Your file reads like you were born in a spell circle and never left.”
Willow laughed under her breath. “I was. But I brought snacks.”
Haley blinked once. Then—almost imperceptibly—she smiled. It was small. Quiet. But it lit something in Willow’s chest that hadn’t sparked in months. Something reckless.
She turned quickly, trying to cool her face with sheer willpower.
A problem.
_______________________________________
Later that night, Willow returned to her room to find another mug on her desk—plain white ceramic, still warm. A sticky note clung to its side, this one messier than the last.
You should glow more often. — H
Willow stared at it.
Then, very slowly, hugged it to her chest.
And whispered, “Oh no.”
Because it wasn’t curiosity.
It wasn’t admiration.
It wasn’t just about sparring, respect, or even the thrill of danger.
Haley Blake was a spark in the dark.
And Willow was catching fire, fast and helpless, and already halfway to burned.
And she did not want to put it out.