Neighborly Intentions: Chapter Three - The Anchor

Protecting Elias is my job. Keeping our life steady is my purpose. But the second Sloane looked at us, I felt the ground shift. I can see the obsession taking root in Elias, and I’m trying to be the voice of reason. The problem? Every time I look at her, my own resolve starts to burn. I don’t just want to help her move a bookshelf; I want to see if she fits between us.

Chapter Three

The Anchor

Ben

The weight of the heavy-duty moving straps over my shoulder feels like a physical manifestation of my own hesitation. I walk half a step behind Elias, my eyes fixed on the back of his neck. I know the line of his shoulders better than I know my own, and right now, they are pulled tight—strung with an anticipation that makes my own stomach do a slow, nervous roll.

I love Elias. I love the way his mind works, the way he dreams in colors I can’t always see. He’s the spark to my steady flame, the one who pushes me to see the world as something more than just a series of problems to be solved. But this? This missing piece he’s been chasing in his head for years? It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and waiting for a gust of wind to decide our fate.

The air in our kitchen is still ringing in my ears. Just minutes ago, I was gripping the edge of our marble island so hard my knuckles turned white, staring at him while he talked about soul-spaces and shifting worlds. I saw the fear in his eyes, but I saw the hunger more. I’ve spent three years building a fortress around the life we have, perfecting the rhythm of us, and in one afternoon, Elias has decided to tear the gates open.

"Eli," I murmur as we reach the bottom of her porch steps. I reach out, catching the crook of his elbow to slow him down. I need him to look at me, to ground himself in us before we walk into whatever is waiting on the other side. "Just... dial it back a notch. You’re looking at her like she’s water and you’ve been in the desert for a week. Remember what we talked about in the kitchen. Just neighbors."

Elias doesn't look at me. He’s staring at the wood of the door as if he can see through the grain to the woman inside. "I’m not thirsty, Ben," he says, his voice a low, raspy confession that vibrates in the small space between us. "I’m starving."

The intensity in his voice hits me like a physical blow. I let go of his arm, my fingers tingling from the sudden charge in the air. I’ve seen Elias passionate before, but this is something different. This is a quiet, desperate kind of reverence that I don’t know how to compete with. Or maybe, I’m afraid I won’t want to.

I take a breath, pulling the neighborly mask firmly into place. I step up and knock on the wood. The sound echoes in the quiet afternoon, and I can feel Elias vibrating beside me, a live wire ready to snap.

The door swings open.

Sloane stands there, and the air between us shifts so violently I actually have to adjust my footing. Up close, she isn’t just a neighbor or a distraction. She’s formidable. She’s wearing a fitted t-shirt that hugs her frame in a way that makes my mouth go dry, and jeans that look like they’ve seen a hard day’s work. There’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek that I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to wipe away with my thumb, just to see if her skin is as warm as the light spilling out from behind her.

"The welcoming committee returns," she says. Her voice is warm, a rich alto that seems to fill the foyer and settle right into the marrow of my bones. She steps back, gesturing us inside. "Come in. Please. Ignore the chaos. I’m still figuring out where everything goes."

"Chaos is our specialty," I say, forcing a light, neighborly tone I don’t quite feel. I step into the house, my boots echoing on the hardwood. The place smells like cedar, citrus cleaner, and something uniquely her—something like home and a fresh start mixed together.

As Elias passes her, he pauses. It’s barely a second, but it feels like an hour. He doesn't touch her, but he hovers—that same intense, devout gaze from the yard settling on her face with the weight of a physical caress. Sloane’s breath hitches. I see the way her pulse leaps in the hollow of her throat, a frantic little bird trapped under her skin. She isn’t recoiling. She’s reaching, even if she doesn't realize it yet.

My chest tightens, a knot of protectiveness and something much more dangerous—curiosity. Elias was right. There’s a gravity to this woman that pulls at me, too. I’m supposed to be the anchor, the one who keeps us grounded in reality, but as I watch her lead us toward a massive oak bookshelf in the corner of the living room, I find myself noticing the way her hair catches the sunlight. She has this way of moving that is so sure of itself, so unashamed, that I feel like I’m seeing a woman for the first time in my life.

"It’s this one," she says, patting the top of the shelf. "It’s heavier than it looks. I tried to walk it across the floor, but I think the floor won. My grandmother would be disappointed in my lack of upper body strength today."

"It’s solid oak," I say, stepping closer to inspect the joinery. I run my hand along the edge of the wood, mostly to give myself something to do other than stare at the curve of her hip as she leans against the wall. "Beautiful piece. Late nineteenth century, if I had to guess. They don't make them with this kind of heart anymore."

"She was a solid woman," Sloane says with a small, wistful smile. "She always said that if you’re going to buy something, make sure it’s strong enough to outlast you."

I look at her then, really look at her, and the protective walls I’ve spent the last ten minutes building start to crumble. She isn't a threat to what Elias and I have. She’s... a revelation. She stands there, watching us with a mix of amusement and something that looks a lot like hope. I’ve spent so much time worrying about Elias scaring her away that I didn’t stop to think about what happens if she welcomes him in. Or if she welcomes me in.

Elias moves to the other side of the shelf, his movements fluid and focused. He isn't even looking at the furniture. He’s looking at her over the top of the wood, his jaw set, his eyes dark with that unadulterated need. It’s the look of a man who has finally found his North Star and is afraid to blink.

"Where do you want it?" Elias asks. His voice is a low rumble, and I see Sloane shiver.

"Against that far wall," she says, pointing. "Between the windows. I want to be able to read by the natural light."

"Good choice," I say, unbuckling the straps. "Eli, take the left side. On three."

We work together, the familiar rhythm of our bodies moving in sync as we lift the massive piece of furniture. Elias is strong, his muscles straining against the weight, but his gaze never leaves her for more than a second. I find myself working harder, wanting to show her that I can hold my end too. I want her to see that I’m just as capable of supporting her world as he is.

It’s a strange, intoxicating feeling—this sudden desire to be noticed by a stranger. Usually, I’m content to stay in the background, to be the steady hand that keeps the ship on course while Elias chases the stars. But with Sloane in the room, I want to be seen. I want to know what it feels like to have those warm, intelligent eyes fixed on me with the same intensity she’s giving him.

We set the bookshelf down with a heavy thud in its new home. It fits perfectly, as if the house were built around it. Sloane claps her hands together, a genuine, joyful sound that makes my heart do a strange little flip-flop.

"Perfect," she breathes, walking over to run a hand along the wood. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't know how I would have managed that on my own."

"You shouldn't have to," Elias says. It’s too much. It’s too honest. He steps toward her, crossing the invisible line between neighbor and something more. "If you need anything else—anything at all—you just have to ask. We’re right there."

I see the moment the air leaves her lungs again. She looks at Elias, then her eyes drift to me, searching for... what? Permission? A sign that this is okay? I should be the one to pull him back. I should be the one to remind him of the boundaries. But as I look at her, standing there in the middle of her new life, all I can think about is how much brighter the room feels with her in it.

"I might take you up on that," she whispers.

"Please do," I say, and for the first time today, the words don't feel forced. They feel like a promise.

Elias is vibrating beside me, his energy so high it’s almost dizzying. I reach out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder, but instead of pulling him away, I find myself wanting to draw her closer. I look at the two of them—Elias with his heart on his sleeve and Sloane with her quiet, magnificent strength—and I realize that the anchor is starting to drag.

We’re not just neighbors helping with a bookshelf. We’re three people standing in the middle of a shifting tide, and for the first time in my life, I’m not sure I want to stay on dry land.

I catch Elias’s eye, and the look he gives me is pure, unfiltered gratitude. He knows. He knows I’m starting to see what he sees. He knows I’m starting to feel the pull. And as Sloane smiles at us—a real, dazzling smile that lights up her entire face—I realize that my "neighborly intentions" were never going to be enough.

"Well," I say, my voice a bit rougher than it was before. "We should let you get back to your boxes. But the offer stands. Dinner, help with the lawn, a hand with the heavy stuff... we're here."

"I'll remember that, Ben," she says, her eyes lingering on mine just long enough to make my skin prickle.

As we walk back toward the door, I feel her gaze on my back. It’s different from Elias’s stare—it’s softer, more curious—but it’s just as powerful. We step out onto the porch and the door closes behind us, leaving us in the cooling afternoon air.

Elias doesn't say a word. He just walks down the steps, his head held high, his stride confident. I follow him, my mind a whirlwind of oak bookshelves, vanilla-scented air, and the way Sloane’s name feels like a secret I’m finally ready to keep.

The missing piece isn't a ghost anymore. She’s the woman in the house next door, and I have a feeling our lives are never going to be quiet again.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Trope Talk: The "Anchor" Cracks The Trope: The Stoic Protector. The Thought: I love that Ben starts this chapter trying to be the "sane" one and ends it realizing he's just as affected as Elias. It's that moment where the man who thinks he's in control realizes the tide has already come in. Do you like it better when the 'steady' hero falls just as hard as the 'wild' one?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026