Tucked into the corner of a pale marshmallow couch, Zoe Moore and Natasha make movie night look like an invitation. Zoe curls up with her plaid shirt knotted high, argyle thigh-highs climbing her slender legs, dark hair falling over one smoky eye. Beside her, Natasha is all sunshine, a soft vintage tee slipping off one shoulder, blue striped cotton shorts riding up her creamy, toned thighs, and long white socks pulled up to the knee. A bowl of popcorn sits between them, half forgotten already.

The film loses its audience in a hurry. Zoe sheds her shirt to reveal the black and white striped band of her knickers sitting low across her peachy hips, while Natasha slides a strap off her pretty white bra with a coy little smirk, her small, pert bust and tattooed ribs caught in the cool blue light. They lean into each other, all glossed mouths and giggles and wandering fingertips, a slumber party that has tipped delightfully off script.