Sam Tye curls at a wooden table in a softly lit loft, a silver laptop open in front of her and a huge red painted Buddha keeping watch on the exposed brick wall behind. Her honeyed blonde hair falls in loose waves over one shoulder of a little black dress, the deep V of the neckline framing a hint of soft, rounded cleavage. She gazes sideways into the middle distance, lashes heavy, a private smile playing at her glossed mouth as if she is scrolling through the kind of memory a girl keeps to herself. Every line of her lithe, toned body is loose and unguarded, the warm lamplight turning her dewy skin a tender gold.

The dress has slipped away and Sam is stretched along the timber tabletop in a pale pink lace bra and matching knickers, one arm thrown above her head, her long toned legs sheathed in sheer black holdups with wide lace welts. She arches her back so her flat, sculpted tummy catches the light, then draws one knee up and leans down to trace a finger along the glittering jewelled front of her heel, the intimate curve of her instep bared in silhouette against the floor. The frame draws close to the quiet, tender details, the soft turn of a nylon clad calf, the slow buckle of a strap, the gentle swell of her bust as she sighs into the pose, Sam holding the viewer in that hushed, unhurried mood of a memory she is happily re-living.