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Dognapped

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: what happens when you combine two identical dachshunds, one dog park mix-up, and a very famous racing driver? Your meet-cute becomes a dognapping crisis!

The late afternoon sun in Monaco is a specific kind of gold. It’s not the hazy, humid gold of a Spanish summer or the sharp, brittle gold of a Swiss autumn. It’s a rich, old-money gold, the kind that filters through the leaves of ancient plane trees and spills across the manicured lawns of the Jardin Exotique, making everything it touches look impossibly expensive and serene. It’s the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re living inside a vintage postcard.

You are watching that very light catch the highlights in the ridiculously silky fur of your dachshund, Gretchen, as she trots with immense self-importance across the dog park’s pristine grass. Her little legs move in a blur, a determined, stubby piston-action that is entirely at odds with her otherwise regal demeanor.

“Gretchen, darling, the ball isn’t going to throw itself!” You call out, holding up the slobber-covered tennis ball.

She gives you a look over her shoulder, a look that clearly communicates, ‘And your point is?’ before she resumes her patrol of a particularly interesting patch of clover.

You sigh, a fond, exasperated sound. Having a dog named Gretchen Wieners means accepting a certain level of high-maintenance sass. It was funny when you named her, a perfect joke for a tiny, cream-colored wiener dog who seemed to be full of secrets. It is slightly less funny when she’s actively ignoring you in favor of sniffing something that is, in all likelihood, the ghost of a croissant from someone’s picnic last Tuesday.

You lean back on the park bench, the wrought iron cool against your sundress, and close your eyes for a moment, just soaking it in. The gentle murmur of French and Italian, the distant hum of a supercar winding its way down Avenue Princesse Grace, the happy yapping of dogs. It’s a peaceful symphony.

The symphony is interrupted by a new sound. A frantic, happy scrabbling of claws on gravel, followed by a leash-jangle and a low, musical voice speaking in a mix of French and English.

“Doucement, doucement. Leo, calm down, please.”

Your eyes flutter open.

Standing by the gate is Charles Leclerc, looking somehow both exactly like he does on television and completely different. He’s not in a race suit, but in a simple white t-shirt and dark shorts, his hair artfully messy from the breeze. He’s wrestling with the clasp of a leash, and at the other end of it is a carbon copy of your dog. A small, cream-colored, long-bodied, short-legged dachshund, vibrating with the sheer, unadulterated joy of reaching a field of grass.

“Okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, finally unclipping the leash.

The dog is a missile. A low-to-the-ground, cream-colored torpedo of enthusiasm. And its target is Gretchen.

He barrels towards her. Gretchen, who had been engrossed in her clover investigation, looks up, her ears perking. She sees the approaching blur and, instead of her usual aloofness with strange dogs, she does something extraordinary. She wags her tail. Not just a polite little flick, but a full-body, a-stranger-is-a-friend-I-haven’t-sniffed-yet wag.

They meet in the middle of the lawn in a flurry of sniffing and tail-chasing. It’s an instant, profound connection. A dachshund love story for the ages.

Charles walks over, a sheepish, devastatingly charming smile on his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Ah, sorry. He is … a lot.”

“Don’t be,” you say, your own smile blooming effortlessly. “Gretchen is usually the queen of social distancing. I’ve never seen her take to another dog so fast.”

“They are, euh, they look like twins.” He gestures towards the two dogs, who are now engaged in a chaotic game of chase that involves a lot of tumbling and playful nips.

“They really do,” you agree. “What’s his name?”

“Leo.”

“I love that. This is Gretchen.”

Charles’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Gretchen? Like, from Germany?”

You can’t help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that makes him smile wider. “No. Well, yes, technically. But her full name is Gretchen Wieners.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his head tilts, a look of slow-dawning comprehension on his face. He lets out a sudden, surprised bark of laughter. It’s a wonderful sound, not performative or polite, but deep and real.

“Non. You did not.”

“I absolutely did,” you confirm, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. “She’s a wiener dog. It felt like a moral obligation.”

“That is the best name for a dog I have ever heard,” he says, still chuckling. He runs a hand through his hair. “Now I feel bad. Leo is just Leo.”

“Leo is a great name! It’s classic. Strong. Lion-like.”

“He is not very lion-like,” Charles says, watching as Leo dramatically trips over his own feet while trying to catch Gretchen. “He is more like a small piece of bread with legs.”

You laugh again, covering your mouth with your hand. “A baguette?”

“Exactly! A tiny baguette.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence for a minute, just watching your identical dogs play. The golden light deepens, casting long shadows across the grass.

“You live around here?” He asks, his voice a little softer now.

“Just up the hill,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Moved here about a year ago.”

“Ah, okay. Me too. Well, I have always lived here. But my apartment is new.”

“Right. Of course.” A silly thing to forget. “It must be strange. To have your hometown be this place.” You gesture around at the opulent, postcard-perfect scenery.

He considers this, his gaze distant for a second. “Sometimes. But most of the time, it is just home. Where my dog is, you know?”

“I know exactly,” you say, your eyes soft as you watch Gretchen roll onto her back, submitting to Leo’s playful attack. “It’s funny how they anchor you. Doesn’t matter where you are, as long as they’re waiting for you.”

“For sure,” he agrees. He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes, a warm, clear green, hold your gaze. There’s an intensity there you weren’t expecting, a flicker of something that makes the air feel suddenly warmer. “It is grounding.”

You feel a blush creep up your neck. You break the gaze, looking back at the dogs. “So, uh, does Leo have any other special skills? Besides the baguette impression?”

He grins, the moment broken but the warmth lingering. “He is very good at sleeping. A champion, really. He can sleep for twenty hours, I think. And he is very good at stealing my socks. And you? What about Gretchen Wieners?” He says her full name with a delighted reverence that makes you ridiculously happy.

“She’s an expert at judging people. She has this look … it can cut you to your very soul. She’s also a master manipulator. She’ll pretend she hasn’t been fed when she absolutely has. She has my parents completely wrapped around her little paw.”

“A clever girl.”

“The cleverest.”

You talk for what feels like five minutes but, when you glance at your phone, you see it’s been almost an hour. The sun is kissing the horizon now, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. The park is emptying out.

“Oh, wow,” you say. “I should probably get going. It’s her dinner time. And if the queen is not fed on time, there will be a rebellion.”

Charles nods, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “Yes, me too. Leo, he gets very dramatic.”

He whistles, a sharp, clear sound. “Leo, viens ici!”

You call out at the same time. “Gretchen! Time to go home, sweetie!”

The two cream-colored blurs, now thoroughly exhausted and panting happily, detach from each other and trot towards the sound of their respective owners’ voices. Or, at least, that’s the general idea. In their post-play haze, they seem to aim for the nearest tall human.

The little dog that arrives at your feet looks up at you with big, brown, adoring eyes, its tongue lolling out. You reach down and scratch behind its ears, the fur just as soft as you remember. “Good girl,” you murmur, clipping the leash onto its collar without really looking.

You stand up and smile at Charles, who is doing the same with the dog at his feet.

“It was really nice to meet you, Charles.”

“You too,” he says, and his smile is genuine. “And you, Gretchen Wieners.” He winks.

“Bye, Leo the Baguette,” you say with a little wave to the dog beside him.

As you walk away, a giddy, light feeling bubbles in your chest. It’s the kind of feeling you get from a perfect, unexpected moment. A little cinematic scene dropped into the middle of an ordinary day. You don’t ask for his number. He doesn’t ask for yours. It feels too transactional. This was just a nice moment at a dog park. Maybe you’ll see him again. The thought brings another smile to your face.

The walk home is pleasant. The dog trots happily by your side, only occasionally pulling to sniff at a particularly fragrant potted plant. When you get into the elevator of your apartment building, it licks your hand.

“You’re extra sweet today,” you coo, stroking its head. “Did you have fun with your new boyfriend?”

Inside your apartment, you unclip the leash. The dog immediately does a perimeter check, sniffing every corner of your living room with a seriousness that suggests it’s searching for contraband. This is normal. Gretchen always does this, reacquainting herself with her kingdom.

You go to the kitchen and pull out her food bowl — a ceramic one with ‘Her Majesty’ painted on the side. You fill it with her special, grain-free kibble and add a splash of water, just how she likes it.

“Dinner is served, my lady!” You call out.

The dog trots into the kitchen, gives the bowl a cursory sniff, and then looks up at you. And whines. A soft, confused little sound.

“What?” You ask. “It’s your favorite. Don’t be difficult.”

It ignores the bowl and nudges its head against your leg, looking for more pets.

This is the first red flag. Gretchen lives for her food. She would trample over a line of puppies for a single piece of kibble. She never, ever, turns down a meal.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask, crouching down. You run your hands over the body, checking for any tenderness. It just wags its tail and tries to lick your face. Everything seems fine. Maybe it’s just tired from playing so hard.

You leave the food and go to the living room, flopping onto the sofa. The dog hops up next to you — another small, almost imperceptible oddity. Gretchen always waits for a formal invitation to come onto the couch. She sits, puts a single paw on the cushion, and stares at you until you pat the seat beside you. This one just launched itself up.

“You’re being very bold tonight,” you say, stroking its long back.

It snuggles into your side, letting out a contented sigh, and promptly falls asleep. Okay, this part is normal. The post-park crash. You turn on the television, keeping the volume low. After an hour, you realize the food in the kitchen is still untouched. That’s not right.

You gently nudge the sleeping form beside you. “Hey. You really need to eat something.”

The dog stirs, blinks its sleepy brown eyes, and then yawns, a wide, cavernous yawn. You smile and go to give it a belly rub, your fingers seeking out that perfect spot that makes its leg start thumping.

Your hand moves across its warm, soft belly. You rub and you rub. And then you stop.

Your brain, which has been happily coasting on the fumes of a charming encounter, suddenly slams on the brakes.

There is … anatomy here. Anatomy that Gretchen, a female dog, definitively does not possess.

You stare down at the dog. The dog stares back up at you, tail giving a lazy thump-thump-thump against the sofa cushion.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. The words hang in the quiet air of your apartment.

You gently lift the dog’s back leg. You confirm the evidence.

This is a male dog.

This is not Gretchen.

This is Leo.

“Oh my god.”

You have Charles Leclerc’s dog. Which means … Charles Leclerc has yours.

A wave of panic, so potent it’s almost nauseating, washes over you. You jump up from the couch. Leo — because this is definitely Leo — looks at you, confused by the sudden movement.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, think,” you say to yourself, pacing the length of your Persian rug. “How do you fix this? How do you fix this?”

You don’t have his number. You don’t know which apartment is his. Monaco is small, but it’s not that small. You can’t just go door-to-door. ‘Excuse me, are you a world-famous Formula 1 driver? And if so, have you accidentally stolen my dog?’

You snatch your phone, your hands trembling slightly. What do you even do? Post on Instagram? Tag him? That seems insane. Mortifyingly insane. Hi @charles_leclerc, sorry to bother you during what I’m sure is a busy schedule of being handsome and driving fast, but I appear to be in possession of your dachshund.

Leo hops off the couch and comes over to you, nudging his wet nose into your hand as if to say, ‘What’s all the fuss about? I’m comfy here.’

You look down at him, your heart sinking. “Your dad is going to think I’m a complete lunatic,” you tell the dog. “Or a dognapper. A very incompetent dognapper.”

You check the collar. It’s a beautiful, soft leather. There’s a small, silver tag attached. You flip it over, your heart pounding with a sliver of hope.

It’s engraved with one word: Leo.

Of course. Why would it have his phone number on it? He’s Charles Leclerc. That would be a security risk.

You sink onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Across the principality, in another apartment that probably has a much better view than yours, is your sassy, judgmental, food-obsessed little girl. And she’s with a man you just met. A very famous, very handsome man who probably thinks you’re, at best, an idiot, and at worst, a kidnapper.

This is, without a doubt, the most bizarre and stressful thing that has ever happened to you.

Leo rests his head on your knee and lets out a tiny, sympathetic sigh.

***

Meanwhile, in an apartment overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Hercules, Charles is frowning at a ceramic bowl that says ‘LEO’ in bold, masculine letters.

The small, cream-colored dog sitting primly at his feet looks from the bowl, to him, and back to the bowl, her expression one of utter disdain.

“What is this?” Charles asks the dog, his voice laced with confusion. “It is your favorite. You love this.”

He had arrived home feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The encounter at the park had been … nice. Genuinely nice. The woman — he hadn’t even gotten her name, he realizes with a pang of regret — was funny and warm, with a laugh that made you want to do whatever it took to hear it again. And her dog’s name … Gretchen Wieners. He smiles to himself just thinking about it.

He’d walked in, unclipped Leo’s leash, and expected the usual routine: Leo would sprint to his water bowl, drink for a solid minute, then come demand his dinner with a series of impatient yaps.

But this dog hadn’t done that. It had walked calmly to the center of the room, sat down, and just watched him. Politely.

“Are you tired, mon bébé?” He’d asked, scratching behind its ears. The dog had leaned into his touch, but it felt different. Less frantic. More refined.

Now, it is refusing to eat.

“Leo, come on. Eat.”

The dog lets out a delicate little huff, turns its back on the bowl, and trots over to the sofa. It sits on the floor and looks up at the cushion, then back at Charles.

“What? You want up?”

The dog just stares.

“Okay …” Charles says, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, then.”

The dog, with an air of someone who feels they’ve finally been understood, hops gracefully onto the sofa and curls up in the corner, tucking its nose under its tail.

Charles stares at it. Leo is not a graceful hopper. Leo is a scrambler, a climber. Leo’s method of getting on the couch involves at least two failed attempts and a final, desperate lunge. This was … elegant.

A strange, unsettling feeling begins to prickle at the back of his neck.

He walks over to the sofa and sits down, observing the dog. It’s the same color. The same size. The same long body and short legs. But is its face a little … narrower? Are its eyes a little more … almond-shaped?

“Am I going crazy?” He murmurs.

The dog opens one eye, regards him, and then closes it again, as if to say, ‘That is a question for your therapist, not for me.’

He leans back, trying to shake it off. He’s just tired. It’s been a long week. The dog is just tired, too. That’s all.

He scrolls through his phone for a while, replying to messages from his team, his family. The dog doesn’t move. Doesn’t snore. Leo snores. Not loudly, but a soft, whistling sound. This dog is perfectly, unnervingly silent.

Finally, he decides to go to bed.

“Okay, time for bed,” he says, standing up. “Come on, boy.”

The dog on the sofa doesn’t move.

“Leo?”

Nothing.

He walks over and gently picks the dog up. It’s warm and sleepy in his arms. He carries it towards his bedroom, talking to it in a low, soothing mix of French and Italian, the way he always does.

“… and tomorrow we can go for a long walk, eh? Maybe see your girlfriend again.”

He sets the dog down on its bed at the foot of his own. As he pulls back his hands, his fingers brush against its stomach.

His hand freezes.

He slowly, carefully, moves his hand again.

There is a distinct lack of something. Something that should be there. Something that has been there every single day of Leo’s life.

Charles’s blood runs cold.

He lets out a string of curses, a fluent, panicked mix of French, Italian, and English.

“Merde. Porca miseria. No, no, no.”

He turns on the main bedroom light, flooding the room in a harsh, bright glare. He kneels down and, with the gentleness of a bomb disposal expert, confirms his horrifying suspicion.

This is a female dog.

This is not Leo.

This is Gretchen Wieners.

He stands up so fast he feels a little dizzy. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing.

“Okay. Okay.”

He has her dog. The woman from the park. The funny, beautiful woman whose name he doesn’t even know. He has her dog. And she has his.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. This is a disaster. But it’s also absurd. He pictures her, wherever she is, having the same moment of shocking discovery.

Unlike you, however, his panic is quickly replaced by a wry sense of determination. He can fix this. But how? He paces his bedroom, Gretchen watching him from her temporary bed with an expression of mild curiosity.

He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have her number. He doesn’t know her name. But he knows where she was. And he has a very particular set of skills. None of which are useful in this situation.

He checks Gretchen’s collar. A simple leather one, with a gold, heart-shaped tag. He flips it over, hoping for a number, a name, anything.

The tag is engraved.

Gretchen Wieners

If I’m lost, my mom is probably ugly crying.

Charles reads it. Then he reads it again. And then he throws his head back and laughs. A loud, genuine, relieved laugh that echoes in the silent apartment.

“Oh, you are kidding me,” he says to the dog, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Your mother is a comedian.”

Gretchen thumps her tail once, as if to say, ‘The best.’

The tag is useless for contact information, but it’s a jolt of pure personality. It reminds him so clearly of her laugh in the park. The stress melts away, replaced by an overwhelming urge to see her again.

He has to find her.

He has a plan. It’s simple. It’s perhaps a little optimistic. But it’s all he’s got.

He will go back to the dog park first thing in the morning. And he will pray that she has the exact same idea.

***

You did not sleep.

You spent the night with a very cuddly, very sweet male dachshund who seemed thrilled to be having a sleepover. Leo, it turns out, is a world-class snuggler. He burrowed under the covers and pressed his warm little body against your back all night. It was nice. But it wasn’t Gretchen.

Every tiny sound from the hallway had you jumping, half-expecting a knock on the door from a frantic, or angry, Charles Leclerc. You imagined him with Gretchen, who you know for a fact is a bed-hog and will systematically push a person to the very edge of the mattress over the course of a night. You hope she hasn’t declared a coup and claimed his bed for herself.

At 6 AM, unable to lie there any longer, you get up. Leo follows you, stretching his long body with a groan.

“Okay, new friend,” you say, your voice rough with exhaustion. “Here’s the plan. We are going back to the scene of the crime.”

You get dressed with a sense of grim purpose, pulling on jeans and a simple sweater. You forgo makeup. This is a rescue mission, not a fashion show. You clip the leash onto Leo’s collar, your hands clammy.

“Please be there, please be there, please be there,” you chant under your breath as you walk out the door.

The morning air is cool and fresh, the sky a pale, promising blue. Monaco is still sleepy, the streets quiet save for the early-morning hum of street cleaners and the cry of gulls. The walk to the park feels ten times longer than it did yesterday. Leo trots beside you, sniffing the air, perfectly content. He has no idea of the international dog-swapping crisis currently unfolding.

As you approach the gates of the park, your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. The park is mostly empty. An elderly man throwing a ball for a golden retriever. A woman jogging on the perimeter path.

And then you see him.

He’s standing near the same bench from yesterday, looking out over the grass. And at his feet is a very familiar, very regal cream-colored dachshund.

Relief washes over you so intensely your knees feel weak.

“Gretchen!” You cry out.

Charles turns at the sound of your voice. His face breaks into a wide, relieved smile. Gretchen’s head snaps up, her ears perked, and the moment she sees you, her tail starts whipping back and forth like a metronome on high speed.

At the same time, Leo spots Charles and lets out a series of excited yips, pulling on the leash.

You half-walk, half-run towards each other, meeting in the middle of the lawn like soldiers being reunited in a black-and-white movie.

“I am so sorry,” you both say at the exact same time.

You stop a few feet from each other, a little breathless, and then you both start to laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, sleep-deprived, utterly relieved sound.

“I am so, so sorry,” you say again, crouching down to unleash Leo, who immediately bounds over to Charles, jumping up on his legs. “I didn’t even look. I just clipped the leash and walked away. I feel like the worst person on the planet.”

Charles is doing the same, unclipping Gretchen, who sprints the last few feet and practically leaps into your arms. You bury your face in her soft fur, inhaling her familiar dog-smell. “Oh, I missed you, you little monster.”

“Non, non, it is my fault,” Charles says, ruffling Leo’s ears. “I was … I think I was a bit distracted.” He looks up at you, and the meaning is clear in his warm eyes. “I am just happy you are here. I was not sure if you would come.”

“Where else would I go?” You say, stroking Gretchen’s back. “I had your dog hostage. I was about five minutes away from creating a city-wide amber alert.”

He chuckles. “I saw the tag on her collar.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh, god. You saw that.”

“The part about the ugly crying?” he says, his smile teasing. “It was very, uh, descriptive. I felt I had a responsibility to prevent this.”

“Mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.”

“I thought it was charming,” he says softly.

You look up, your cheeks flushing. “So, how was she? Was she a nightmare? Did she steal your side of the bed?”

He laughs. “She is a princess, for sure. She refused to eat from Leo’s bowl. She would not get on the sofa until I formally invited her. And yes, she sleeps horizontally. I think I had maybe ten centimeters of the bed last night.”

“That sounds about right,” you say, shaking your head. “Leo was an angel. He’s the world’s best cuddler. And he didn’t eat either. He just whined at Gretchen’s ‘Her Majesty’ bowl and looked at me like I was trying to poison him.”

“He is not used to such a fancy dish,” Charles says. “He is a simple man. A baguette.”

You both smile, the morning sun warming your faces. The dogs, happy to be with their rightful owners, are now sniffing each other again, their crisis averted, their world restored to its proper order.

An easy silence settles between you, filled with the relief of the situation being resolved. But underneath it, there’s a new tension. The excuse for seeing each other is gone. The dogs are back where they belong. This could be another goodbye.

You can’t let that happen.

He can’t let that happen.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a gesture you’re starting to find incredibly endearing. “To prevent, you know, a future canine mix-up of this magnitude …”

“… we should probably be more careful,” you finish for him, your heart starting to beat a little faster.

“Yes. That. But also, maybe I should have your number,” he says, his gaze direct and hopeful. “Just in case. For emergencies.”

“Right,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “Emergencies. Like if I accidentally take your dog again.”

“Exactly,” he says, a playful glint in his eye. “Or if, for example, I wanted to ask if you were free for dinner sometime, to properly apologize for my part in the dognapping.”

A huge, brilliant smile spreads across your face. “I think I could be free for that particular emergency.”

“Good,” he says, his own smile mirroring yours. “That is very good.”

You pull out your phone, and he pulls out his. You trade numbers, your fingers brushing as you hand his phone back to him. A tiny spark zings up your arm.

“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice low.

“Okay,” you breathe out.

He lingers for a moment, as if he doesn’t want to leave. “I never got your name yesterday.”

You tell him. He repeats it, testing it out, the sound of it in his accent making your stomach do a little flip.

“It was very nice to meet you. Properly, this time,” he says.

“You too, Charles.”

He gives a final scratch to Gretchen’s head. “Be good for your mother, Princess.” Then he looks at Leo. “Come on, baguette. Let’s go home.”

You watch him walk away, Leo trotting happily by his side. Just before he exits the park, he turns and gives you one last smile and a wave.

You wave back, your hand feeling floaty and light.

You look down at Gretchen, who is looking up at you with an expression that is somehow both smug and loving.

“Well,” you say, clipping her leash back onto her collar. “I guess you’re a pretty good wingwoman after all.”

Gretchen wags her tail, as if to say, ‘You’re welcome.’

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