Jamie Jenkins leans easily against a black padded bench in a light industrial studio, the exposed brickwork behind her warm and honey-toned, a splash of blue abstract canvas adding colour at her shoulder. She is dressed with a kind of effortless mischief: a slouchy white vest with a scattered pattern skimming her shapely frame, glossy black leggings that pour down her legs like ink and hug every curve from her peachy hips to her slender ankles. Her long chestnut hair falls in a loose cascade, a pert smile tugging at one corner of her mouth as if she already knows the secret she is about to share.

She tilts her weight onto the bench and the tilt of her head becomes a coy invitation, her glowing skin catching the soft daylight across her collarbone and the sweet line where the vest drapes away from her body. The leggings glide with each shift of her stance, pulling taut over the rounded swell of her thigh, the sheen of them flirting with every small movement. Jamie looks directly into the lens with a sugar-laced grin, full of unspoken promises, a girl confessing nothing yet somehow telling you everything.