John. Not even his mother called him John, at least not very often. But somehow he doesn't feel like correcting her. It feels right, or at least what she ought to call him.

"It's okay," he says hesitantly. "I... I know it wasn't what you wanted." He frowns, looking her over. She seems perfectly collected now, more like what she was when they first met - not at all like the second time. "I have a few guesses," he says, "but... they're just guesses." Really uninformed guesses at that. But he's distracted by the memory of his dream, which, given the nature of dreaming he's experienced Rift-side, was probably a lot more than just his dream.

"Look, are you okay?" He steps a little closer, and Novatiana peeks out at the TARDIS, looking very concerned for a rabbit. "Last time I saw you, you... you seemed like you were hurt. Or under attack." He feels a sad internal tug - Novatiana quivers in unison - at the memory. "I was there. With... with the butterflies."