Michael hears her, though it's some remote part of him that can function without his full attention. When he moves, it's slow and dazed, fumbling. He keeps his face covered for as long as he can; it's only visible in the dim light for a moment before he's pressing it damply against Lee's chest and muffling a sharp intake of breath. His arms go back around her, fingers grabbing for purchase in the fabric of her coat.
There's something dark and awful expanding inside of him, and it's a miserable struggle to keep a lid on it. Screaming and cursing and smashing everything in existence is sounding like a better and better idea—either that or jumping back up and walking this all off at ferocious speeds in the freezing cold—but he knows those are not Things People Do, that even Lee would not approve of those things. Helpless, he smothers himself, staying as quiet as he can.
“I don't know what to do,” he chokes out after a while.