KEEP IT PROFESSIONAL CH. 1
2hollis X manager!reader series
tags: angst, yearning, unreciprocated feelings, masturbation, crying during masturbation
The green room smelled like sweat, spilled redbull, and the faint metallic tang of stage fog that still clung to everyone’s clothes. Overhead, one fluorescent bulb flickered with a low electric buzz that drilled into the back of your skull. You sat at the small folding table, tablet glowing harshly against the dimmer mood lighting, fingers flying across the screen as you finalized tomorrow’s travel manifest for the third time. Everything had to be perfect. Hollis didn’t need to worry about missed connections, wrong hotel keys, or a single uncomfortable minute if you could help it.
Hollis was slumped on the black leather couch across from you, legs stretched out, one boot tapping an irregular rhythm against the floor. His dark hoodie was zipped halfway, revealing a sliver of sweat-damp skin at his collarbone. Strands of messy blonde hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes… those sharp, hazel eyes that made the crowds scream, were lined heavily in eyeliner and fixed on you with an intensity that felt heavier tonight than usual.
You didn’t notice. Or rather, you noticed but interpreted it the way you always did: he was tired, appreciative. The show had been brutal in the best way, the kind of raw, chaotic energy that left him drained but buzzing. He stayed close because you made the chaos manageable. That was your role. You were the calm center he could rely on.
“You okay with the 7 a.m. pickup?” you asked, voice even and reassuring. “I already spoke with the driver. He’ll have your usual coffee and breakfast order. And I confirmed the black-out curtains and the quiet room at the hotel in Austin. I know you need to rest. No one will bother you until soundcheck.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “You’re always one step ahead.”
There was something fractured in his tone, but you smiled anyway, small and efficient. “That’s my job, Hollis. I’ve got you. You don’t have to carry any of it.”
He looked away then, jaw tight, fingers digging into the couch cushion until the leather creaked. You have no idea what i’m carrying, he thought.
Because unbeknownst to you, you were his exact type. Not just physically, though the way your voice softened when you were thinking, the subtle scent of your shampoo that cut through the venue’s stale air, the focused line of your brow when you solved problems… it all wrecked him. It was deeper than that. You were competent in a way that made his chest ache. You took care of everything so he never had to struggle, never had to feel the weight of the world alone. And that care, that unwavering support, had become something dangerous in his mind. Something he craved like oxygen.
He knew it was wrong. You were his manager. The person who kept his career from imploding. Crossing that line could destroy your trust, your reputation, his momentum. So every day he fought it. Every day he lost a little more.
After the crew cleared out, the two of you retreated to your hotel suite to hammer out the final logistics for the next four dates. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clink of glass. You’d ordered a modest spread from room service. A small bottle of expensive whiskey for him, a single glass of red wine for yourself, and a small charcuterie board to share. The plan had been simple: quick planning session, then sleep.
But Hollis kept drinking.
One drink became three, then five. His usual guarded demeanor cracked under the weight of exhaustion and months of suppressed want. The lamplight cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the dark circles beginning to form under his eyes. The air between you felt thicker now, charged with something unspoken. You could smell the liquor on his breath when he leaned closer to look at the itinerary.
You were mid-sentence, explaining the revised press obligations in Austin, when he suddenly set his glass down with a heavy clink. His hand trembled slightly.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he rasped.
You blinked, lowering your tablet. “We can push the interviews back if you need more rest. Just say the word and I’ll handle it…”
“Not the schedule.” His voice cracked. He laughed once, a hollow, broken sound that made your stomach twist. “You. Being around you every single day. Watching you fix everything like it’s nothing. Hearing your voice say my name like I’m just… manageable. It’s killing me.”
The confession landed like a stone in still water. Silence swallowed the room. The air conditioner’s hum suddenly felt deafening. Your pulse spiked, a cold rush of nervousness flooding your veins.
Hollis’s eyes were glassy, raw with alcohol and honesty. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I have a crush on you. A real one. The kind that fucks with my head every night. I think about your face when I close my eyes. The way you smell. How steady you sound even when everything’s falling apart around us. I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t be saying any of this. But I can’t stop it anymore. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so fucking hard.”
Your mouth went dry. Heat flooded your cheeks, followed immediately by a sharp wave of panic. This was dangerous territory. Your job, his career, the entire tour… everything balanced on professional boundaries. One misstep and it could all crumble.
“Hollis…” You set your wine glass down carefully, afraid your shaking hand might spill it. “I… I don’t know what to say. I’m really flattered, but this can’t happen. My job is on the line here. Your reputation, the momentum we’ve built… it’s too risky. We have to keep this professional.”
The words tasted like ash. You watched the light in his eyes dim, defeat carving deep lines into his face. He looked smaller suddenly, the confident stage persona stripped away, leaving only a young man drowning in feelings he couldn’t control.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice thick. “I figured you’d say that.”
He stood up unsteadily, swaying for a moment. For one agonizing second, he lingered close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint mix of his drink, cologne, and the lingering stage sweat on his skin. His gaze searched yours with desperate longing, as if begging you to take it all back. Then he stepped away.
“I’ll go,” he muttered. “Sorry. Fuck… I’m sorry.”
The door clicked shut behind him with brutal finality. You sank back into the chair, heart pounding, the awkward tension still thick in the air like fog. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. This changed everything. How were you supposed to look at him tomorrow morning at 7 a.m. and pretend none of this had happened?
Down the hall in his own room, Hollis had barely made it to the bed before his legs gave out. The king-sized mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge, head in his hands. The room spun gently from the alcohol, but the ache in his chest was painfully sober. The sheets smelled like generic hotel detergent… clean, impersonal, nothing like you.
He couldn’t stop seeing your face. The way your eyes had widened in shock. The careful, professional distance in your voice when you told him no. The subtle tremble in your fingers as you set the glass down.
It hurt. It hurt so much more than he’d expected.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking.
He slung his legs over and settled into bed, unzipping his jeans. His hand moved almost on its own, sliding down his stomach, pushing past the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers. He was already half-hard from the memory of being so close to you, from the torment of wanting what he couldn’t have. His fingers wrapped around himself with a shaky grip. The first stroke pulled a broken groan from his throat.
He pictured your steady gaze, the way your lips moved when you said his name, the quiet competence that made him feel safe and desperate all at once. His hand moved faster, rougher, lubricated with his pre-cum, chasing relief that felt further away than ever. Pleasure twisted with sharp, agonizing guilt.
Tears welled up unbidden, hot and stinging. One slipped down his cheek, then another. A quiet, choked sob escaped him as his strokes grew erratic, desperate.
“I want you,” he whispered into the empty room, voice raw and wet with tears. “I need you so fucking bad… Why does it have to be you?”
The orgasm hit him like a wave, intense but hollow, leaving him gasping and trembling on the bed. He curled onto his side afterward, knees drawn up, tears still flowing freely now. His chest heaved with silent sobs as shame crashed over him in relentless waves.
She said no. She drew the line. And here I am, still thinking about her. Still touching myself, picturing her face like some pathetic pervert.
He fought his own mind, the same vicious cycle repeating: Stop. You can’t have her. You’ll ruin her career. You’ll ruin everything good she’s built for you. But the need refused to die. It lived under his skin, in every quiet moment when you were near, in every night when you weren’t.
Hollis buried his face in the pillow, muffling another broken sound. The taste of salty tears lingered on his lips. The memory of your voice echoed cruelly in his ears… calm, supportive, untouchable.
He had to have you. The thought terrified him as much as it consumed him. He didn’t know how to stop wanting, how to kill these feelings without killing part of himself in the process. Tomorrow he would have to face you again at 7 a.m., pretend the confession had never happened, and keep orbiting you like a man slowly being pulled into a black hole.
Because walking away wasn’t an option anymore.
He needed you too much. And that need was going to destroy him, one aching night at a time.
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