Morningside Cuesta we're all falling and we all need a place to hide

Far from his namesake, and the place he sought with fervor, Coast trudged sourly through a desert of snow. He found no shelter that would leave him unburied, and with the flakes still falling in fat droves he thought it best he keep moving to stay warm. His trot started off confident, and he had plowed and bounded through the snow with ease. But after nearly an hour of this, the wolf found that his pace had slowed dramatically, almost to a crawl, and his annoyance ripened as the sky dumptrucked his path with drift after drift of inconveniencing snow.

He began to make out a figure darker than the cloying white around them, observing it with his shark eyes until he had discerned that it was another wolf and therefore (presently) inedible. He wasn't that hungry. It didn't stop him from approaching at a bound— seeking the small opportunity for warmth. He loosed a single short note of a howl to the slow-moving creature, then tucked his ears and kept his tail and posture lank to indicate a lack of harmful intent despite his fast approach. Coast stopped close to the small seawolf and practically threw his lean hindquarters at her, attempting to connect their sides without the added risk of offering his face for her likely disapproval.

And all this because he didn't want to pry his mouth open in the storm so that he might  articulate to her that they should walk together if they wanted to stay warmer.