The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, a thin, constant hum that Phuwin had stopped noticing an hour ago. Now, standing at the cake table with the crowd's cheers swelling around them, it was the only thing he could hear besides his own heartbeat.

The cake was white, four tiers of buttercream and sugar flowers, and it sat between them like a monument. The knife waited on the linen, its silver handle catching the light. Phuwin's fingers brushed the damp cloth, sticky with something sweet, and he pulled his hand back.

Pond's arm settled around his waist, heavy and warm, and the crowd's noise pitched higher. Someone whistled. Someone else clapped. The photographer crouched low, lens pointed at them like a weapon.

"Smile," Pond murmured, his breath already warm against Phuwin's ear. "They're watching."

Phuwin's jaw tightened. He was smiling. He had been smiling for hours, through the ceremony, through the toasts, through Siyh's increasingly drunk demands for him to "show the ring, show the ring, show the RING." His cheeks ached. His feet ached. His heart was doing something complicated in his chest, a mix of joy and terror he couldn't untangle.

And Pond's hand was sliding lower.

"Pond." Phuwin's voice came out breathless, a warning he didn't mean to sound so soft. "They're watching us cut the cake, not this."

Pond's fingers found the curve of his ass through the black pants, gripping with a confidence that made Phuwin's breath catch. The crowd surged again, a wave of laughter and wolf-whistles, and Phuwin felt the heat crawl up his neck, across his cheeks, settling somewhere dangerous in his chest.

"Then smile for them," Pond whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Phuwin's ear, "and think about tonight."

The words landed like a spark in dry grass. Phuwin's body leaned back into Pond's chest without his permission, a gravitational pull he couldn't resist, and he felt Pond's smirk against his skin.

"You're impossible," Phuwin managed.

"And you're blushing."

"I'm not—"

"Your ears are red."

Phuwin's hand flew to his ear, the motion automatic, and the crowd laughed. He dropped his hand, glaring at the cake like it had personally betrayed him. The knife glinted, innocent, patient.

The photographer clicked, the shutter sound sharp and final. "One more, gentlemen! Hand on the knife together!"

Pond's grip on Phuwin's ass loosened, but he didn't move his hand away. Instead, he slid it up to Phuwin's hip, fingers splaying against the bone, a possessive claim that felt like a brand through the thin fabric of his pants.

"Ready?" Pond asked, his voice low enough that only Phuwin could hear.

Phuwin picked up the knife. The handle was cool in his palm, the weight solid. He could feel Pond behind him, the heat of his body like a furnace, and the awareness of every camera, every phone, every pair of eyes in the room pressed against him like a physical weight.

"I don't know how to cut a cake," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

Pond laughed, a genuine, warm sound that vibrated through his chest and into Phuwin's back. "You've never cut a cake?"

"I've never had a wedding cake before."

The silence that followed was only a heartbeat long, but it was heavy. Pond's hand on his hip tightened, a small, private squeeze that said more than words could.

"Then I'll teach you," Pond said, and his voice had gone soft, the teasing edge gone. "First slice is the hardest. After that, it's just cake."

Phuwin's throat felt tight. He stared at the frosting, at the tiny sugar flowers, at the way the light caught the knife's edge, and he thought about all the things he'd never done, all the firsts he'd never expected to have. This was one of them. This was a first.

"Okay," he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt.

The crowd had quieted, sensing something shifting in the air. The photographer's lens was still pointed at them, but even he seemed to be holding his breath.

Pond's hand covered his on the knife handle, warm and sure. The touch was electric, a jolt that ran up Phuwin's arm and settled somewhere in his chest, and he felt the world tilt slightly, the way it always did when Pond touched him.

"Together," Pond said, and his voice was a promise.

The blade hovered over the frosting. The crowd leaned in. Siyh's voice cut through the silence, sharp and delighted: "Kiss them after! You have to kiss after!"

Phuwin's laugh escaped him, a surprised, breathless sound. He felt the heat in his face again, but this time it wasn't from embarrassment. It was from joy, from the sheer, overwhelming absurdity of this moment—him, here, married, cutting a cake with the man he'd spent months convincing himself he couldn't have.

"She's going to make us do it," Phuwin said, and he could hear the smile in his own voice.

"I know," Pond said. "I'm counting on it."

The knife's edge touched the frosting. The first cut began.

The blade sank into the buttercream, smooth and yielding, and Phuwin felt the resistance give way under his hand. Pond's hand was still over his, guiding, steady, and the pressure of his body against Phuwin's back was a constant, grounding warmth.

The cameras flashed. The crowd erupted. And Phuwin, standing in the middle of it all with his hand on a knife and his husband's chest against his spine, thought: This is it. This is the first day of the rest of my life.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like coming home.

The blade finished its descent, and the first slice separated from the cake with a soft, wet sound. Phuwin watched the piece lean, precarious, held together by nothing but frosting and gravity. Pond's hand was still over his, warm and heavy, and for a moment neither of them moved.

Then Pond's thumb traced a small circle on his hip — a gesture so deliberate it felt rehearsed, like something he'd practiced in his head a hundred times before daring to do it in public. Phuwin's breath stuttered. He didn't know why that particular touch undid him more than the grip on his ass, more than the whispered promise of tonight. But it did. It was the kind of touch that said I know you, and that was somehow the most terrifying thing of all.

"You have to lift it," Pond said, his voice low, almost gentle. "The slice. You have to lift it out or it'll fall apart."

Phuwin blinked. "What?"

"The cake. You cut it, now you have to serve it." Pond's breath was warm against his ear, a private instruction in a room full of people. "First slice goes to the person you love most."

"That's not a rule."

"It is now."

Phuwin's fingers tightened on the knife handle. The blade was slick with buttercream, the silver edge smeared white. He could feel the crowd pressing in, the phones raised, the photographer's lens still hungry. But all of it felt distant, muffled, like sound underwater. The only thing that was real was the heat of Pond's chest against his back and the small, circling pressure of his thumb.

"Who's the person you love most?" Phuwin asked, and the question came out softer than he'd meant it to, almost fragile.

Pond's thumb stilled. For a long moment, he didn't answer, and Phuwin felt the silence stretch between them like a held breath. Then Pond's hand slid from his hip, reaching past him, and he took the slice from the blade with his bare fingers, ignoring the frosting that clung to his skin.

He turned Phuwin around to face him.

The room went quiet again, that same hush that had fallen before the first cut. Phuwin could see the sugar flowers on the cake behind Pond's shoulder, the white linen, the smeared knife still in his own hand. He could see the crowd beyond, a blur of faces and fairy lights, but he couldn't look at any of them. His eyes were stuck on Pond's — dark, warm, and fixed on him like nothing else in the room existed.

Pond lifted the slice to Phuwin's lips.

"Then you," he said, his voice rough at the edges. "It's always been you."

Phuwin's mouth opened, and he took the bite. The buttercream was sweet, cloying, too much sugar on his tongue, but he didn't taste any of it. He tasted the moment instead — the weight of it, the way the room had fallen away, the way Pond was looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

He swallowed. His eyes were stinging, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

"That's too sweet," he managed, his voice cracking at the edges.

Pond's mouth curved, a slow, private smile that was only for him. "You're sweeter."

"That's the worst line you've ever said."

"Did it work?"

Phuwin's face was burning. He could feel the heat in his ears, his cheeks, the back of his neck. He wanted to look away, to hide behind his bangs, but Pond's eyes held him there, patient and warm.

"Maybe," he admitted, and the word came out smaller than he'd meant it to.

Pond's smile widened, and he leaned in, his forehead pressing against Phuwin's. The gesture was soft, almost tender, a private moment in the middle of the chaos. Phuwin could smell the salt of the sea on his skin, the faint cologne he'd worn for the ceremony, the sweetness of the frosting on his breath.

"I love you," Pond said, and the words were so quiet Phuwin almost missed them. "I love you so much it scares me."

Phuwin's throat closed. He opened his mouth to answer, to say it back, but before the words could come, the crowd surged again, a wave of cheers and wolf-whistles that broke the spell. Someone started clapping. Someone else yelled, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" and the chant caught, spreading through the room like fire.

Pond pulled back, but his hand stayed on Phuwin's waist, steady and grounding. His eyes were still on Phuwin's, and there was a question in them, a quiet are you okay? that Phuwin answered with a small, shaky nod.

"They're not going to stop until we do it," Phuwin said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

"I know."

"You're going to enjoy this."

Pond's grin was unrepentant. "Immensely."

Phuwin rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and he couldn't hide it. He set the knife down on the linen, the blade leaving a smear of frosting on the white cloth, and he reached up to cup Pond's jaw with both hands. The touch was deliberate, a claim in front of everyone, and he felt Pond's breath catch.

"Then stop waiting," Phuwin said, and he pulled him in.

The kiss was deep, unhurried, a slow press of lips that tasted like buttercream and salt and forever. Phuwin felt Pond's hand slide up his spine, fingers tangling in the fabric of his crop top, and he let himself sink into it, let the noise of the crowd fade to a distant hum. For a moment, there was nothing but this — Pond's mouth on his, Pond's heart beating against his chest, the impossible, overwhelming fact that this was real.

The cameras flashed. The crowd roared. And Phuwin, breathless and dizzy, pulled back just far enough to murmur against Pond's lips:

"Can't wait for later."

Pond's eyes went dark, and his grip tightened on Phuwin's waist. "You're going to regret saying that."

"I'm counting on it."

The first slice sat on the linen, slightly lopsided, a small imperfection in a perfect day. Phuwin looked at it, then at Pond, and he thought about all the things he'd never done, all the firsts he'd never expected to have. This was one of them. This was a first.

And it was only the beginning.