You’ve always hated the smell of sawdust.

For most people, it’s nostalgic — childhood fairs, the thrill of cheap magic tricks, the bright laughter under the big top. But for you? It’s the smell of long hours, cold meals, and the sharp sting of someone shouting orders until your throat ached from swallowing your words.

The lions never shouted at you.

You understood each other in ways humans never seemed to. Their slow blinks, their rumbling purrs, the way they leaned against the bars when you passed. They didn’t care if you were quiet, or strange, or if your hands shook when you tried to feed them. To them, you weren’t the girl who never smiled enough, or the one who didn’t “earn her keep.” You were theirs.

And they were yours.

By the time Scarlett Johansson walks into your life, you’re already an adult — old enough to have stayed far too long in a place you should’ve left years ago. She doesn’t fit here. Not in this world of peeling paint and tired routines. She’s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, her blonde hair catching the late sun as she scans the lot like she’s looking for something specific.

When her eyes land on you, it feels like being pinned to the spot by a spotlight.

“Hey,” she says, voice low but carrying. “You work here?”

You nod, hesitant. Most strangers come with questions you don’t want to answer.

She studies you for a beat, then glances toward the lion enclosure where two of the big cats lounge in the shade. “They like you.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “They’re family.”

Something shifts in her expression — not pity, but recognition.

“I hear your family’s not so good to you,” she says plainly. “That true?”

Your stomach knots. “Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, stepping closer. “What matters is… you don’t have to stay here. I can get you out.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because no one’s ever said that to you before. “It’s not that simple.”

Her gaze is steady. “It is if you let me help.”

Behind you, one of the lions gives a low, deep rumble — not a warning, but encouragement, the same sound they made when you first stepped into their trust years ago.

You glance back at them, then at Scarlett.

She’s still watching you, her posture loose but ready, like she’s prepared to step between you and the whole damn world if it comes to that.

“I don’t know you,” you say quietly.

“Then let’s fix that,” she replies, the faintest smile touching her lips. “Starting with getting you someplace safe.”

For a long moment, all you hear is the wind in the tents and the lions breathing behind you.

And then, maybe for the first time in your life, you take a step toward the exit.