John lived quietly in his stone cottage on the rolling hills of Wales. His days were simple—tending his garden, walking the forest paths, and watching the evening mist rise from the valleys. Yet within his heart burned a secret dream: to one day meet King Felipe of Spain, the man he admired not only for his dignity but for the kindness that seemed to shine through his every gesture. For John, the thought of even the briefest touch, a kiss upon the lips, was like imagining heaven itself.
One late afternoon, as the sky blushed with the colors of dusk, John heard a knock at his door. Surprised—since few ever came this far—he opened it to find a tall, distinguished man in a simple coat, his dark hair slightly tousled by the wind.
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you,” the stranger said in a gentle Spanish accent. “My car has broken down on the road nearby. Might I ask for some help?”
John blinked, his breath catching in his chest. He knew that face—though here it was without crown, without ceremony. It was him. King Felipe, standing on his doorstep as though fate itself had led him there.
Trying to steady his voice, John invited him in. “Of course. Please, come inside, Your—” He stopped himself. The king smiled knowingly.
“Tonight, I am only Felipe,” he said warmly.
They sat by the fire as John made tea, the glow of the flames flickering between them. Conversation flowed easily—Felipe speaking of his travels, John of the quiet beauty of the Welsh countryside. There was laughter, gentle silences, and the unmistakable sense of two souls finding one another in the unlikeliest of places.
When the hour grew late, Felipe rose to leave, but paused by the door. He looked at John, his gaze soft, searching. “You have given me more than shelter tonight,” he said quietly. “You’ve given me peace.”
And before John could find words, Felipe leaned closer. The kiss was tender, unhurried, a promise sealed in warmth and wonder. For John, it was as though the world stopped, leaving only that perfect, impossible moment.
Weird eh
