Me-Before-You-by-Jojo-Moyes

I took his fingers gently in mine and closed my own around them. They were
warm, the fingers of someone very much living. I was so oddly reassured by
how they felt in my own that I kept them there, gazing at them, at the calluses
that told of a life not entirely lived behind a desk, at the pink seashell nails that
would always have to be trimmed by somebody else.
Will’s were good man’s hands – attractive and even, with squared-off fingers.
It was hard to look at them and believe that they held no strength, that they
would never again pick something up from a table, stroke an arm or make a fist.
I traced his knuckles with my finger. Some small part of me wondered
whether I should be embarrassed if Will opened his eyes at this point, but I
couldn’t feel it. I felt with some certainty that it was good for him to have his
hand in mine. Hoping that in some way, through the barrier of his drugged sleep,
he knew this too, I closed my eyes and waited.
Will finally woke up shortly after four. I was outside in the corridor, lying across
the chairs, reading a discarded newspaper, and I jumped when Mrs Traynor came
out to tell me. She looked a little lighter when she mentioned he was talking, and
that he wanted to see me. She said she was going to go downstairs and ring Mr
Traynor.
And then, as if she couldn’t quite help herself, she added, ‘Please don’t tire
him.’
‘Of course not,’ I said.
My smile was charming.
‘Hey,’ I said, peeping my head round the door.
He turned his face slowly towards me. ‘Hey, yourself.’
His voice was hoarse, as if he had spent the past thirty-six hours not sleeping
but shouting. I sat down and looked at him. His eyes flickered downwards.
‘You want me to lift the mask for a minute?’
He nodded. I took it and carefully slid it up over his head. There was a fine
film of moisture where it had met his skin, and I took a tissue and wiped gently
around his face.
‘So how are you feeling?’
‘Been better.’