The afternoon stretches into evening, and the kitchen lights dim to a soft amber glow. Olga pours a glass of chilled rosé, the liquid catching the light like liquid rubies. She slides a slice of the newly glazed tart onto a porcelain plate and sets it before Luc.

Luc nods, his eyes heavy with the glow of intimacy. “I think I understand now,” he says. “Beauty isn’t just in the picture; it’s in the feeling that lingers after the shutter clicks.”