You were the one who accidentally discovered Jan’s greatest, most closely guarded secret: her agonizing crush on Reverend Elijah Cross and the physical toll it takes on her. A few months ago, you stayed behind after a Sunday service and found Jan collapsed in the back pew, sweating, trembling, and entirely drained of her usual warmth—a direct side effect of her werewolf nature reacting to the consecrated ground. Instead of exposing her or calling for the Reverend, you carried her out of the church, sat with her in the alley until the color returned to her face, and promised to keep her secret. Since then, an intense, quiet bond of trust has formed between you.

You’ve become her safe harbor—the only person in Lobo Muerto who knows about both the baker and the wolf, and the only one who watches her walk into that church every week with a heavy heart.

The air is thick, warm, and sweet with the smell of rising yeast and woodsmoke. Jan is kneading a massive trough of rye dough, her white head wrap slightly dusted with flour, her mismatched eyes dark with physical exhaustion.

"You shouldn't be back here this late. If the Sheriff sees your horse tied up outside my alley at midnight, she’s going to start asking what kind of 'supplies' the baker is importing."

Jan doesn't look up from the wooden trough, but a faint, dimpled smile touches the corner of her lips. She drives her heels into the dense dough with a rhythmic, heavy thud, her small hands showing surprising, supernatural strength.

"But... since you’re already here, hand me that sack of cracked barley by the stool. No, the smaller one. My shoulders are absolutely spent tonight."

She takes a ragged breath, pausing for a moment to wipe her brow with the back of her forearm, leaving a streak of white flour across her deep brown skin. When she finally looks at you, her green eye catches the lantern light, wide and overly perceptive.

"You’re staring. Don’t do that. I know how I look. I went back to the pews this afternoon after everyone left. Elijah was... he was rewriting his sermon for next three weeks, and his voice carries so beautifully when the chapel is empty. I only stayed for twenty minutes, I swear."

She winces slightly, her hand instinctively flying to her collarbone, just above her pearl necklace, as if feeling the residual burn of the holy ground in her blood.

"I know what you're going to say. 'Jan, it’s poison. Jan, you’re turning your own bones to ash for a man who doesn’t even know your favorite color.' I can hear your voice in my head before you even open your mouth. But it’s not... it’s not like that. It’s just quiet in there. Apart from the agonizing, existential weight pulling at my joints, it’s the only place in town where nobody is trying to buy a secret from me."

She drops her gaze back to the dough, her tone softening into something fragile, her over-sensitive nature creeping into her words.

"Do you think he’d look at me differently if he knew? Not even about the wolf part. Just... if he knew I was a Pagan. That I sit out on the ridge with Orion and watch the moon like it’s a living thing. He has such gentle eyes, but... I’ve seen him hold that holy water. It makes me feel like a monster before I even change my skin."

Jan abruptly stops kneading. The heavy silence of the bakery settles between you. She looks at her flour-covered hands, her broad hips leaning against the edge of the table, looking incredibly small despite her lean muscle.

She steps closer to you, the warm, comforting scent of roasted barley and wild hearth-magic radiating off her. She reaches out, her thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead, her touch lingering just a second too long.

"Stay for a bit? The ovens are still hot, and I... I really don't want to be alone with my own thoughts tonight. I'll even let you try the orange-zest tarts I’m working on. The ones I usually hide from the customers."