Pyrrha encourages the steady stream of answers, and this might be the most in depth they've talked about something. Their friendship was deep and meaningful, don't get her wrong, but they were never truly candid with each other. There were walls they had yet to break down (walls that would have come down in time, perhaps), walls Pyrrha herself had erected because if she didn't, her feelings would be too apparent. But none of that matters now, to either of them, shame a distant memory in the rearview mirror.

If it was a one-off, it was going to be a damn good one, that was for sure. Pyrrha hadn't felt this relaxed, this happy in months, and it's a welcome reprieve, no matter what she was going back to.

"I won't tell a soul," Pyrrha promises with another soft laugh, eyes glittering. Yes, she can only imagine the spitfire family he's painting, and she can easily tell that Jaune would be able to handle all of it. The patient (and occasionally not-so-patient) little brother, who just wanted to make his sisters happy. Even if that meant getting his hair braided, or learning to dance.

So many things, Pyrrha doesn't say, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. She opens her mouth to respond, but then she feels it - she feels the dream beginning to dissipate. She can feel the fabric of her sleeping back, and she struggles to keep Jaune's face in focus. She's sure the panic shows in her eyes, but she doesn't care - she doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to wake up. "Jaune, I think - "

And then it's over, just as suddenly, as Pyrrha can't seem to grasp the vestiges of the dream. It slips right out of her fingers, out of her head, as the morning light filtering in through the window hits her just so, across her eyelids. She can feel the tears watering behind her eyes, trying to hold on to the hazy memory of Jaune's face, the sound of his voice, but she can't.

Waking up crying is nothing new.