Permafrost Hollows locked up, naked with socks

A shift in the weather, the wraith no longer gloomy from the southern reaches of the mountains that they’ve left behind. A pep is now in his step, and he trails ahead of Kratos—the hound allows it, entranced by the eagerness in his mate’s attitude.
Black ears perk forward, catching the scent just as Zephyr mentions it. The ice wraith keeps a distance ahead of him, but soon he picks up his pace—trotting to meet the silver and rotating his head to brush the back of his skull against Zephyr’s cheek, much how a cat would greet it’s favorite people (or rather, scent mark them).
You, he finishes for him. It smells like you.