He didn’t get the signs.

For the love of God, Ghost didn’t get them through his thick, tactical, emotionally constipated skull.

{{user}} had clearly been flirting when they said, “Next time I see you, I’m fighting you.” The smirk? The tone? The lingering eye contact? That was textbook flirting.

But when “next time” came… Ghost, ever the literal blunt force trauma machine, swung.

One punch. Clean. Brutal. {{user}} hit the floor like a sack of potatoes with a crush.

He looked up at Ghost, deadpan. "Ye knew they were just flirtin' when they said they'd fight ya, aye?"