Louis exhaled heavily. “You need to eat, babe. Your muscles aren’t going to magically fuel themselves. Nutrition is part of the game.”
Harry rolled his eyes and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He chased it with a gulp of protein milk. “Happy now?”
“No.” Louis didn’t miss a beat. He set down his fork and fixed Harry with a look. “Because you’re not happy. You’re in your head again.”
Harry’s shoulders sagged, the air leaving his chest in a sigh. “I am happy.”
“You’re not,” Louis countered. “You’re worrying. Overthinking. You need to be here, not stuck in your head playing out what-ifs.”
Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, heat crawling up his throat. “Lou, I don’t—”
“Don’t say it.” Louis leaned across the table and caught Harry’s hand. “You belong here. You qualified. You’re in the Olympics, Harry. You did what you had to do to get here, and now you’re here. I believe in you. So why can’t you?”
Harry's mouth twisted. “I mean … everyone else has been doing this for years.”
Louis squeezed his hand. “And so have you. You’ve trained harder than anyone gives you credit for.”
Harry blew out a sharp breath and slumped further into his chair, his eyes darting toward the other athletes scattered across the hall. “They’ve been here before, Lou. They’ve got experience. They look the part. They are the part.”
Louis shook his head slowly, his grip never loosening. “At some point, they were new too. No one is born an Olympian, Harry. Everyone starts somewhere. You’re here now, you belong just as much as anyone at those tables.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Harry’s lips. “You won silver at your first Olympics,” he reminded him.
“And you can do the same.” Louis kissed his knuckles.
Harry’s throat went tight. “I’m nervous, Lou. Okay? Everyone’s stronger. Faster. Better, and I…” His voice cracked, the rest dying on his tongue.
Louis squeezed his hand harder. “Stop comparing yourself to them. Stop staring at everyone else. You know your routine. You know what works for you. That’s what you focus on—you. Don’t lose yourself out there. Just … be Harry Styles.”
Harry blinked quickly, fighting the sting in his eyes.. “Tomlinson,” he corrected softly, pouting.
Louis laughed and shook his head. “Love, you never legally changed it. It’s still Styles.”
“Too much paperwork,” Harry complained, reaching for his protein milk again. He paused, lips twitching. “But I still like having Tomlinson on my name. Feels like … acknowledgment.”
“For the love of—fine.” Louis sighed dramatically, but his smile betrayed him. “Harry Styles-Tomlinson. There. Happy?”
