Love Triangle Trouble

The Bed-Hogging Showdown

Our Sydney flat smelled like burnt sage and poor life choices, thanks to my ill-fated attempt to “cleanse the vibes” earlier that day. I sat on our daggy couch, clutching a mug of chamomile tea gone cold, my stomach doing backflips. Jake, my boyfriend of three years, paced the room, his flannel shirt crumpled, his hipster beard twitching with frustration. Across from us, sprawled on the armchair like she was holding court, was Riley, my oldest mate, radiating smug nonchalance. The tension was so thick you could’ve slathered it on toast.

Jake stopped pacing, his eyes flicking between me and Riley. “It’s either her or me, Emma,” he said, his voice low and dramatic, like he was starring in a cut-rate rom-com. “You can’t keep pretending this works. I’m done playing second fiddle.”

I nearly snorted my tea. “Second fiddle? Jake, you’re my boyfriend. Riley’s… well, Riley’s been with me forever. You knew that when you moved in.”

“Did I?” Jake threw his hands up, pacing again like a barrister in a bad telly drama. “Because I don’t recall signing up for a three-way relationship. Every time I try to get a moment with you, Riley’s there, stealing the spotlight, making me feel like I’m crashing your party.”

Riley let out a soft, judgy huff, shifting in the armchair with a grace that screamed, You’re being extra, mate. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Jake was blowing this way out of proportion, but his frustration was real, and I’d been too distracted to see how deep it ran.

“Jake, you’re being ridiculous,” I said, setting my mug on the coffee table, still scratched from Riley’s overzealous encounter with a takeaway burrito. “Riley’s not going anywhere. We’re a package deal. You’ve always known that.”

“A package deal?” Jake’s voice hit a pitch I hadn’t heard since he tried my “spicy” mango smoothie. “Emma, I love you, but this is bonkers. I can’t compete with her. She gets all your attention! Last week, you bailed on our date night because Riley was ‘acting off.’”

Okay, he had a point. I’d cancelled our romantic evening—candles, vegan tacos, the works—because Riley needed me, and I was worried. But could you blame me? Riley’s been my rock forever. “That was one time,” I said, wincing. “And I apologised.”

“One time?” Jake gestured wildly at Riley, who responded with a slow, deliberate stretch, radiating pure I don’t care vibes. “What about the sleeping arrangements? I’m clinging to the edge of the bed while Riley hogs the doona. And don’t even mention the Great Bagel Debacle.”

I stifled a giggle. The Great Bagel Debacle was infamous. Jake had splurged on artisanal everything bagels—poppy seeds, sesame, the lot—only for Riley to eat them all. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it,” I said, shrugging. “She was obviously hungry, and they are great bagels.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Great bagels? Emma, that’s not the point! You can’t keep letting her run the show. It’s her or me.”

Riley chose that moment to let out a loud, theatrical yawn, then stood, stretched again, and sauntered out of the room, her exit as dramatic as a diva leaving a stage. I raised an eyebrow—classic Riley—but Jake didn’t miss a beat.

“See? Even now, she’s stealing the show!” he said, pointing at the empty doorway. “I’m serious, Emma. Choose.”

The room went quiet, save for the faint hum of the radiator. I looked at Jake, his face a mix of pleading and exasperation. My chest tightened. Jake was my future—witty, sweet, the bloke who’d mastered vegan nachos for me. But Riley was my past, my comfort, the one who’d stuck by me through every heartbreak, job loss, and that time I tried to “go viral” with a vegan cupcake vlog (spoiler: 19 views). Choosing felt like picking between my heart and my soul.

“I need air,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the hook by the door. “I can’t think with you staring at me like that.”

Jake’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t stop me. “Fine. But you can’t dodge this forever, Emma.”

I slipped out into the chilly Sydney night. The street buzzed with its usual chaos: honking taxis, a bloke yelling about organic kombucha, a distant saxophone wailing. I walked, my mind a tangle of guilt and indecision. Jake wasn’t wrong—I’d let Riley dominate our lives, assuming he’d just deal. But I hadn’t realised how much it was costing him. The late-night interruptions, the constant need for my attention, the way Riley seemed to revel in stealing the show—it was too much.

I thought back to when Jake and I got together, how he’d charmed me with his terrible puns and endless patience. He’d never minded Riley at first, even seemed to like her. But somewhere along the way, things shifted. Riley’s presence, once a quirky addition, had become a wedge. The way she’d insert herself into every moment, demand my focus—it was driving Jake up the wall.

I stopped under a flickering streetlight, my breath clouding in the cold. Jake was my partner, the one I could build a life with. Riley was my chaos, my joy, the one who reminded me to laugh when life got heavy. Choosing felt impossible.

When I got back to the flat, the lights were dim, and the living room was empty. I frowned, expecting to find Jake sulking at the kitchen table with a beer, but the place was quiet. Then I heard a soft snore from the bedroom. My heart skipped—had Jake gone to bed without me? I stormed down the hall, flung open the bedroom door, and gasped. “I can’t believe you two are in bed together!”

There, sprawled across our queen-sized bed, was Jake, one arm flung over Riley, who was stretched out like she owned the mattress, her head nestled against his chest. Jake cracked an eye open, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Who’s jealous now?”

I burst out laughing, the tension melting away as I climbed onto the bed. “Move over, Riley,” I said, shoving at the 80-pound lump of Labrador, who barely budged, her golden fur gleaming under the lamplight. “You’re such a bed hog.”

Riley—my female dog, my furry soulmate—let out a contented groan, her tail thumping lazily. I realised then that Jake’s ultimatum wasn’t about choosing one or the other—it was about finding balance. And as I squeezed in beside them, Riley’s warm bulk a stubborn barrier, I knew we’d figure it out. Together.

But the real kicker? A week later, the vet told me Riley was pregnant. Her “acting off” wasn’t just her being a diva—she was expecting a litter. Jake’s face when I told him we’d soon have a pack of mini-Rileys? Absolutely priceless.