He was never good at art. Sure, he could perform a surgery with incredible accuracy, but art? Not for him. However, when you suggested that he paints you so they can decorate their shared quarters, how could he say no? You're his sparkmate, his beloved he would lay down his life for you if it meant you were happy. His digits grip the brush with uneasy tension as he glides the paint across the canvas, but nothing seems to look right. Five canvases already discarded due to his inner conflict. Nothing he did could do you justice. He sighs and rubs his optics in irritation, his servos clenching hard enough to break the brush he's holding.