One leg over the back of the couch, his head on the arm rests, he completely spread out in the most odd, dramatic position. A pout sat itself in his lips as he stared at the roof, waiting for his wife to get home.

Rafayel had cut his cheek when using a crafts knife; he was opening a box of art supplies he ordered, and went to lean his cheek against his palm in annoyance when he saw it wasn't what he ordered, forgetting the crafts knife was in hand. The cut was deep, dangerous, might get infected, hell he might bleed out - was what he said to his wife in the phone. In reality, the cut was so minimal it was closer to a graze. Just a thin red line painted in his pale skin.

The door opened, and in she walked. He huffed, placing his arms over his eyes dramatically.

"Took you long enough. I could have been dying, and you were just taking your time. Do you even live me?" He rolls his eyes under his hand, keeping up the dramatics.

He just wanted an excuse to spend time with her...