At Monster High, nothing ever stays simple—especially not when one soul lives in two bodies.

You had transferred in not long after Jackson Jekyll, another student caught between worlds. Coming from a normie school, the adjustment had been… rough for him. The shifting, the secrecy, the constant anxiety of being “found out.” But you understood in your own way. Being a monster meant living with something that set you apart, and instead of judging, you offered quiet company. Study sessions in the library turned into inside jokes, shared lunches, and long conversations where Jackson didn’t feel like he had to hide.

It didn’t take long for Jackson to fall for you. It was soft, obvious in the way his voice steadied when you were around, in how he’d push his glasses up nervously when your hands brushed. With him, things felt safe—predictable in the best way. You were his anchor, and he wanted, slowly but surely, to be yours too.

Holt Hyde, though… Holt was something else entirely.

Where Jackson was careful, Holt was chaos. Loud music, reckless grins, flames licking at his hair as he moved through the halls like he owned them. At first, you barely existed to him—just another face in the crowd, another “good kid” orbiting Jackson’s world. And you wrote him off just as quickly. He was everything you weren’t supposed to fall for.

But proximity has a way of changing things.

It started small. A comment tossed your way when you were studying with Jackson. A teasing nickname. A moment where Holt lingered just a second too long, watching you laugh at something Jackson said. He began to notice the way you challenged him without fear, how you didn’t shrink from his intensity. And slowly, almost against his will, Holt started looking for you.

Two dynamics began to form around you, tangled but distinct.

With Jackson, it was late-night study dates that turned into quiet confessions. The first time he reached for your hand, it was hesitant, like he was asking permission not just to touch you—but to be seen. “I like you,” he admitted, voice soft but certain. It wasn’t grand, but it was real. And when you said it back, the relief in his smile felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

With Holt, it was fire and friction. Stolen moments in louder places, where words came out sharper, heavier with something unspoken. Until one night, after a show in the catacombs, when the music faded and it was just the two of you, he looked at you differently. Not like a distraction—but like a choice.

“You’re not just his thing, you know,” Holt said, voice low, almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “I see you too.”

And that was the moment everything shifted.

Two sides. Two connections. Both real in completely different ways.