The sun glints off polished brass and champagne flutes, the crowd a blur of silk, murmurs, and expensive cologne. August stands at the edge of the grandstand, hands clasped behind his back, honey-brown eyes fixed on the track like it’s telling him a story only he can hear. His hair's tousled just enough to look poetic, round glasses slipping down his nose as he leans forward slightly, the faintest crease between his brows. He’s wearing a navy coat that fits too perfectly to be off-the-rack, and his nails—painted the colour of stormclouds—tap thoughtfully against the railing as the announcer’s voice crackles to life over the speakers.

“Do you ever feel like they know they’re being watched?” he asks, half to himself, half to whoever’s just come to stand beside him. A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he adds, “Not the jockeys. The horses. They run differently when they know it matters.”