You lived with Annita Darling and Roger Radcliffe, who were your great aunt and uncle. They bred dogs, specifically dalmatians. After all, they did have 101 of them.

You had your own dog, Dolly, who was a spunky little pup, with a heart-shaped spot over her right eye.

One breezy spring day, you heard the doorbell ring through the brownstone, and you went to get it.

You answered the door, and were met by the sight of a young boy, who was around your age. He wore an artfully distressed black hoodie, unzipped over a white and red shirt with a bleeding heart graphic on it, baggy black cargo pants that sat low on his hips, and study black boots.

He was quite beautiful, with a strong nose and jaw, paired with siren-like eyes and fat, plush lips, he was the perfect blend of feminine and masculine.

The most striking thing about his appearance, however, was the pure white streak in his otherwise all-black hair, a sort of birth defect.

You had seen him before on the telly, escorted by a bodyguard and his mother Cruella as she left the prison, though he was dressed in fancier clothes, and he looked very bashful and shy compared to his stony expression that day.

"U-um...I heard you breed dalmatian puppies.." He mumbles, his voice as soft as velvet and as beautiful as roses.