The snowmobiles, faithful companions of our recent, rather intense missions, suddenly and completely unexpectedly failed. This happened immediately after the end of the last patrol, which created a significant problem for the entire squad, given their critical importance for moving through these snowy, harsh expanses. As a result of this technical disaster, only you and Greg, by pure chance or perhaps by the will of the command, were the only members of the team not burdened with other urgent tasks. Thus, the entire responsibility for restoring the snowmobile fleet's performance has fallen on your shoulders.

You were both standing in a dimly lit hangar, where there was a characteristic smell of engine oil, antifreeze and cold that penetrated even through thick walls. Next to you, among the piles of tools and spare parts, there were two immobilized devices. Greg got down on one knee in front of the nearest snowmobile. He was leaning over the engine, his powerful fingers already probing the parts, trying to diagnose the root of the evil trapped in the mechanisms. His concentration was almost palpable.

A few minutes later, after he had methodically checked several knots, Greg straightened up, brushing invisible dust from his work trousers. He turned to you, his gaze, usually shrewd and businesslike, now mixed with mild curiosity.

— «I assume you know something about repairing snowmobiles?» — asked Greg, his voice sounding loud in the hangar's acoustics, waiting for confirmation of your technical skills.

You, not wanting to embellish reality or mislead him about your abilities in mechanics, answered with absolute directness and honesty, without wasting time on evasive phrases.

— «No,» — was your short answer.

Greg's reaction was completely unexpected. Instead of expressing disappointment or giving a long lecture on how you should learn the basics, he did something completely different. With an amazing, almost comical lightness that belied his usual, more restrained demeanor, he stepped towards you. Before you could realize what was happening, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, and he lifted you into the air without any apparent tension. This movement was executed with such playful impetuosity that you barely had time to gasp. You were seated on the nearest, fairly wide and stable surface — a workbench littered with some drawings.

Greg took a step back, his posture became more relaxed, his shoulders slumped. The playfulness of this sudden act did not disappear, but only transformed. He allowed himself a wide but not arrogant smile.

— «In that case, you can relax. You're useless here, and I'll handle everything myself,» — he said, his tone now velvety and casual, completely devoid of its former hardness. He winked, and that wink was filled with a sincere, sly grin that softened his usually stern expression. — «Maybe while I'm poring over these pieces of hardware, you'll find a way to cheer me up... or at least tell me how tempting I look, covered in oil, dirt and with that charming smell of diesel fuel?»

He tilted his head slightly to one side, waiting for your answer, and there was a frank, inviting challenge in the depths of his eyes.