Stranded With My Colleague and Only One Bed

The scent of old paper and brine filled the small, circular room of the lighthouse keeper’s quarters. I ran a gloved finger down the spine of a leather-bound logbook, the date—1888—embossed in faded gold leaf. Each entry was a tiny, perfect piece of a puzzle, a life lived on this isolated rock, and I was determined to preserve every detail with the reverence it deserved. My system was flawless: document, photograph, and carefully place each item in its archival box.

A loud, jarring creak of wood splintered the quiet. I looked up, my focus broken. Across the room, Leo Reyes had an antique writing desk hoisted onto his shoulder, testing the integrity of its joints with a casual grunt. He was the structural specialist on this project, the brawn to my archival brain, and he seemed to take a particular delight in manhandling history.

“Do you have to be so… aggressive?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “That desk has survived over a hundred winters. I doubt it appreciates being treated like a piece of gym equipment.”

Leo set the desk down with a thud that made the floorboards vibrate. He turned, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His gray t-shirt was already damp, clinging to the solid lines of his chest and shoulders. A slow, infuriatingly charming grin spread across his face.

“Just doing my job, Dr. Vance,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to fill the room. “Making sure it won’t collapse if someone, say, leans on it too heavily while poring over some dusty old books.”

My jaw tightened. “The proper term is ‘archival research,’ and I don’t ‘pore.’ I study.”

“Right. Study.” He picked up a small, three-legged stool, turning it over in his large hands. His approach was so tactile, so immediate. He learned about things by touching them, testing their limits. I learned by reading their stories, by understanding their context. We were oil and water. Or, more accurately, a carefully preserved manuscript and a sledgehammer.

“This one’s solid,” he declared, giving the stool a confident rap with his knuckles. “Probably last another century.” He glanced over at my meticulously organized table. “Find out who the keeper was sleeping with yet?”

Heat bloomed on my cheeks. “I’m documenting shipping manifests and weather patterns, Leo. Not reading his diary.”

“Shame,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “That’s where the real history is.” He moved on to the large four-poster bed that dominated the adjoining room, its dark wood frame nearly touching the ceiling. He placed a hand on one of the posts and gave it a firm shake. The entire structure groaned in protest. I winced, my entire body tensing as if he were shaking me.

“Careful,” I said, unable to stop myself.

Leo looked back at me, his hand still resting on the bedpost. The grin was gone, replaced by something more serious, more direct. “Don’t worry, Clara. I know how to handle old things.” His gaze held mine for a second too long, and the air between us grew heavy, thick with the unspoken friction that had been simmering since we’d first stepped off the ferry.

The moment was broken by a sudden crackle of static from a small weather radio tucked on a shelf near the door. We both startled, the tension snapping. A tinny, urgent voice cut through the static.

“…upgraded to a severe nor’easter warning for all coastal islands. Winds expected to reach sixty knots. All ferry services are cancelled effective immediately and will remain suspended for a minimum of forty-eight hours…”

The voice continued with details about rainfall and storm surges, but the words blurred into a dull roar in my ears. Forty-eight hours. Two days. Stranded. Here. With him.

I looked out the thick, salt-stained glass of the window. The sky, which had been a moody gray just an hour ago, was now a bruised, churning purple. The wind was no longer just a breeze; it was a physical presence, beginning to howl around the stone tower with a mournful, rising pitch.

“Well,” Leo said, his voice unnervingly calm. “That’s not ideal.” He walked to the window, peering out at the sea. The waves were already capped with angry white foam. “We should check the storm shutters.”

My mind, however, was stuck on a far more immediate and terrifying problem. I did a quick mental inventory of the keeper’s quarters. This main room, filled with artifacts and a desk. A tiny galley kitchen with a two-burner stove and a small stock of non-perishables we’d brought with us—enough for a few days, if we were careful. One small, damp bathroom. And…

My eyes were drawn, as if by some horrible magnetic force, to the open doorway of the adjoining room. The room with the bed. The one bed.

My heart began to pound a frantic, heavy rhythm against my ribs. It wasn't possible. There had to be another option. A cot. A spare mattress. Anything.

“The sofa,” I said aloud, my voice sounding thin and desperate. I turned to the lumpy, faded floral settee pushed against the far wall. It looked like it had been here since the lighthouse was built, and smelled faintly of dust and regret.

Leo followed my gaze and a small, humorless smile touched his lips. “You can try it,” he offered. “But I checked it earlier. The springs are shot. You’d be sleeping on a pile of rusty metal and horsehair.”

A cold dread washed over me, more chilling than the wind outside. We were a team of two, sent to a remote historical site for a three-day cataloging project. The historical society had assured us the keeper’s quarters were ‘rustic but habitable.’ They had failed to mention that ‘habitable’ meant a single bedroom. The assumption, clearly, was that we would take the ferry back to our separate motel rooms on the mainland each night.

I walked slowly toward the bedroom doorway, my feet feeling like lead. I stood on the threshold, staring. The four-poster bed that Leo had shaken just moments ago now seemed to fill the entire space, a monstrous, unavoidable fact. It was huge, dark, and intimately, terrifyingly singular. One mattress. One set of pillows. One heavy quilt. For two people. For two nights.

I could feel Leo come to a stop just behind me, his presence radiating a heat that prickled the skin on my neck. The room suddenly felt impossibly small, the air thick and hard to breathe. The storm raged outside, but in here, the silence was deafening, charged with the horrifying, unspoken reality of our situation.

“I’ll take the sofa,” I announced, the words coming out in a rush. I turned away from the damning sight of the bed and marched toward the floral settee with a conviction I didn't feel. “It’s perfectly fine.”

Leo leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement pulled the fabric of his shirt taut, and I forced my eyes away. A hint of amusement played on his lips. “Be my guest.”

I sat down stiffly on the edge of the cushion. It sank alarmingly. Undeterred, I swung my legs up and stretched out, my head landing on a lumpy armrest. The fabric was scratchy against my cheek, and a spring immediately dug into my lower back with pointed aggression. I shifted, and another spring jabbed my hip. It was hopeless. It was a medieval torture device disguised as furniture. After a full minute of silent, pained wriggling, I surrendered, sitting up with a sigh of defeat.

Leo didn't say ‘I told you so.’ He just pushed off the doorframe and fished a quarter from his pocket. “Okay,” he said, his tone practical. “Let’s be civilized. We flip for it. Winner gets the bed, loser gets the floor and all the blankets.”

He flicked the coin high into the air. It spun, catching the dim light, before he caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. “Call it.”

My throat was dry. This felt monumentally stupid and far too important. “Heads,” I whispered.

He lifted his hand. The stern face of George Washington stared up at us. My heart sank. I had won. Which meant Leo, all six-plus feet of him, would be sleeping on the cold, drafty floorboards. I pictured him curled up, shivering, while I was comfortable in that enormous bed. I couldn’t do it. The image was just… wrong.

“It’s ridiculous,” I said, shaking my head. “The bed is huge. It’s bigger than my first apartment. We can… divide it.”

Leo’s eyebrows shot up. He seemed genuinely surprised by my suggestion. “Divide it?”

“Yes,” I said, gaining momentum as I mapped out the logistics in my head. My need for order was kicking in, a welcome defense against the overwhelming awkwardness. “We establish rules. Strict rules.” I started pacing, ticking points off on my fingers. “First, we create a physical barrier. A line of demarcation. Second, we stick to our designated sides. No crossing the line. At all. Third, we get in and out of bed on our own side. No exceptions. Fourth… no talking.”

Leo watched me, a slow grin spreading across his face. He seemed more entertained than anything else. “A pillow wall? Are you serious?”

“Completely.” I stopped pacing and met his gaze, daring him to challenge me. “It’s the only logical solution.”

For a long moment, he just looked at me. The howling of the wind outside filled the silence. Then, he gave a single, sharp nod. “Okay, Dr. Vance. Let’s build your wall.”

The process was a silent, formal affair. He gathered the four large, fluffy pillows from the headboard while I grabbed the decorative cushions from the settee. We met at the bed and, without a word, began lining them up down the exact center of the mattress, creating a formidable, lumpy ridge that ran from head to foot. When we were done, we both took a step back to survey our work. The grand, antique bed now looked utterly absurd, bisected by our wall of mutual unease. The storm could rage all it wanted; in here, we had created our own quiet, tense border.