Lenalee wouldn't know; she'd never felt uncomfortable as the visitor. That had been the entire point behind fleeing to Kanda's room.

She sits gingerly on the mattress near to him and stares at the place he'd started picking at without really seeing it. The difference in height feels as if it's separating them, and that's distracting; as if being up here puts them onto different levels somehow (more than just literally), so she scrunches her legs and slides down to join him on the floor. In the tone of someone trying to downplay things, she murmurs, "It's all right," then hesitates and adds, "I've slept on far worse while on a mission."

Which is true— she has. But never for five months. Never paired with constantly less-than-what-they-need food supplies, people she doesn't know, and slow, torturous play weeks that may not grind to bone as quickly as Rhode's games, but still eat away like them. None of this is something Lenalee is going to say. Complaining doesn't fix it, after all.

"You get used to it after a while."