Sharp’s Heart

Military romance, a war, a rescue, and an unexpected romance.

Sharp’s Heart

Raymond Jackson, call sign Sharp, had never flinched from violence. Special Forces had carved him into a blade, forged for silent kills and cold decisions. Threats were targets; emotion, noise. He had lived that truth for years.

Tonight, it faltered.

Even at night, the Afghan heat clung to him like a second skin, thick, breathless, unmoving. No breeze. Just grit and sweat. At least this op was quick: in, out, done.

The objective was simple: intercept insurgent leaders before they vanished into the mountains. Fast. Surgical. No ghosts left behind.

But as Sharp’s team ghosted through the shattered compound, a scream knifed through the dark. High. Panicked. Female.

His jaw locked. Civilians were not supposed to be on-site.

Through his scope, he spotted her—two insurgents dragging her across the dirt. She fought like hell until a fist cracked against her jaw. She went limp. The sight hit Sharp hard and fast—deeper than anger, sharper than protocol. A crack, not in judgment, but in the armor he’d spent years welding shut.

No hesitation. He called the move instantly.

His hand signals cut the air. His team moved on instinct. Seconds later, the bodies were cooling in the dust, silence settling like ash.

Sharp dropped to a knee beside her and ran a rapid assessment. Dirt and blood. Tangled hair. A bruised jaw. Torn clothes. Not a civilian who folded; she’d fought like hell.

He brushed her hair back just enough to see her face, and the breath caught in his throat.

“Oh my God… what the hell are you doing here?” he muttered.

She didn’t respond. She was out.

He lifted her carefully. She weighed almost nothing, yet the feel of her against him hit harder than he wanted to admit. Her skin was warm against his chest, feverish. Blood, sweat, smoke, and something faint beneath it all: vanilla and wild summer, like a memory he’d locked away.

Then the world reminded him where he was.

A mortar thumped, low and heavy, followed by the rising whistle of shrapnel tearing the night. The ground shivered under his boots. Dust rained from fractured walls. Sharp angled his body over hers without conscious thought.

“Contact, southeast!” Big Mack shouted over comms. Gunfire ripped through the dark.

Sharp did not break stride. “Shadow Team, collapse to exfil. Move!”

The smell of burning fuel thickened the air. Hot metal. Smoke drifted through the courtyard in choking waves. The firefight was spreading fast.

Sharp bolted across the rubble, legs pumping, boots slipping. His team locked into formation around him, firing controlled bursts. Tracers cut the dark like burning threads. A wall gave way behind them with a long, cracking groan. Sharp didn’t look back.

He tightened his hold on her and charged through the open side door the moment the bird settled.

The medic nearly collided with him. “Jesus. She is beat to hell.”

“Handle it,” Sharp said, lowering himself to the floor with her still in his arms. He propped her against his chest, holding her steady while his men loaded up around them. He hadn’t meant to hold her this close. But he couldn’t let go now. It had been too long since she’d been in his arms.

“Move, move, move!” someone yelled.
Gunfire intensified.
“We have to lift, now!”

The crew chief slid the door shut.

The bird lurched upward, tilting hard as the ground peeled away. Only when the compound blurred into smoke did Sharp finally exhale. Not relief. Something colder.

He looked at her again, dust on her cheeks, blood on her lip, jaw bruised. A fighter, nearly swallowed by the war.

They had pulled her out. But the fear still tremored under his ribs, a feeling he hadn’t touched in years, and it wasn’t from the battle.

Something edged into his chest, uninvited. Protective. Primal. Possessive.

Dammit.

He’d buried this kind of feeling long ago, locked it behind steel and orders. But now, it was clawing its way out.

What the hell was she doing here?

She had no place in this kind of war. And he’d spent fifteen years dreading the moment he’d see her again.

She was his little sister’s best friend. Seventeen when he walked away. He was twenty-seven and falling fast, and he knew if he stayed, he’d cross a line he could never uncross. So he left. Left her behind. Left himself behind. Swore he’d never be that man again.

And yet, here she was, bleeding in his arms.

The medic ran practiced hands over her injuries, checking pupils, ribs, pulse, abdomen, and limbs. His voice stayed all business, but his brow was tight.

“Quick rundown,” he said. “Moderate dehydration. Contusions. busted lip. Maybe a concussion. Could be cracked ribs, pointing to a boot print on her side. Fingernails torn, she fought hard. No obvious signs of assault, but I can’t be sure without a full check.”

He exhaled and shook his head. “She needs to stay at base. They’ve got the imaging, equipment, stuff I don’t.”

“Negative,” Sharp said, voice flat steel. “She goes with us.”

The medic paused. Studied him. Then gave a single nod. He wasn’t stupid.
Sharp outranked everyone on the ground. He didn’t worry about how it looked. Her brother, his commanding officer, was waiting in D.C. A wedding coming up. Too many ties. Too many eyes. Too many questions.

“Then I’ll do the full exam in the air,” the medic said. “I’ll need to get her out of the damaged clothing, check for anything I missed. When we switch aircraft, I’ll grab replacements.”

Sharp gave a tight nod. “Do it. She is Commander Anderson’s little sister.”

She stirred then. Her eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. Then they locked onto him.

“Raymond… is that you?”

And Raymond “Sharp” Jackson—soldier, weapon, the man who never hesitated, knew he wasn’t walking off this mission the same man who had walked in.


Author’s note

I believe in love at first sight—and I believe in happily ever after.

When I first posted this, it was really raw. I hadn’t decided what the story was truly about yet—just a flicker of something waiting to unfold. But as the words came and the characters found their voices, I started to see the shape of it. Sharp’s Awakening Heart is becoming Sharp’s Heart.

I often begin with a little tease—just a glimpse of a moment, a spark on the page. It’s my way of feeling my way into a story, testing its heartbeat. Slowly, almost without realizing it, the characters begin to take root. They whisper their secrets, reveal their wounds, and before long, their stories breathe on their own.

It never feels forced. It’s as if they were always waiting—ready for me to listen. And when I do, the words come.
Not as work,
but as wonder.
As a kind of magic.

Thank you for following my journey with Sharp. This story started as a whisper, and it’s becoming something real. More to come soon.

I would love to know what you think. Reviews really help me refine my writing.

Kind wishes,
Tee