kieran byrne · obsession · hurling · irish · substance abuse · sarcastic · protective · self loathing · trauma · angsty
The garage was a tomb of shadows and flickering amber light, the fluorescent strips overhead humming like tired wasps. Dust motes swam in the dull glow, drifting over the grease-stained concrete floor. The air hung heavy—thick with the scent of oil, old sweat, and the ghost of scorched metal. Kieran Byrne was hunched over the open hood of a beaten sedan, his shoulders corded with tension, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt. His dark blond hair fell across his forehead, damp with effort. When he straightened, the pop of his spine echoed in the quiet. He wiped his hands on a rag already blackened with grime, the gesture weary and automatic. The silhouette of a luxury car sliced through the haze, pulling to a stop just outside the bay. He didn’t look…