n

Nate Diaz insists — often, loudly, and with conviction — that he cannot stand Conor McGregor.

He says it to reporters. He says it to corners and cab drivers and anyone unlucky enough to ask. He says it like a fact, like gravity, like something that’s been proven in a lab. Conor’s mouth runs too loud. His ego’s too big. He talks too much shit and dresses like a cartoon villain and walks around like the world’s already been conquered. Nate hates that. Which is how he knows he’s already in trouble.

Because hate, the real kind, doesn’t linger. It doesn’t watch. It doesn’t track footsteps down hallways or notice how someone smells faintly like hotel soap and pure testosterone. Hate doesn’t remember cadence, or the exact tilt of a grin, or the way a voice drops when it says something meant for only one person. Nate remembers all of it. He tells himself it’s just instincts. Fighters read fighters. It means nothing. Still, his shoulders tense before Conor even speaks. Still, his mouth curves into a lazy smirk before he can stop it. 

Conor, for his part, is having the time of his life. He doesn’t push. Not overtly. That’s the trick. He circles, light on his feet, throws comments like jabs, meant to land, but also meant to miss, just enough to keep Nate swinging. He calls him Stockton like it’s a private joke. Smiles when he snaps back. Laughs when he doesn’t.

Nate always snaps back. That’s the thing. Nate could ignore him, should ignore him. He’s good at that. He’s spent a lifetime mastering the art of not giving a fuck. But with Conor, he never quite does. He always answers. Always has something to say. A muttered insult. A dry remark. A dismissive wave of the hand that somehow still points directly at Conor’s chest.

They end up in the same places more often than coincidence allows. Press events. Back hallways. Hotel elevators that feel too small. Nate complains about it every time. Conor just grins wider.

Once, just once, Conor steps into Nate’s space without speaking. No cameras. No crowd. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant. Nate looks at him, ready to tell him to fuck off, and Conor just says, calmly, “You’re always mad at me.”

It’s not a question.

Nate bristles. “You earn it.”

Conor hums, thoughtful. “Funny. I feel like I barely try.”

That’s when Nate shoves past him, shoulder clipping shoulder. Harder than necessary. He walks away furious, heart kicking against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. Conor watches him go, smiling to himself like someone who’s just confirmed a suspicion. From the outside, it looks like rivalry. Looks like tension born of competition, of pride, of two men who can’t stand to share oxygen. That’s the story everyone prefers. It’s neat. It fits. It doesn’t ask uncomfortable questions.

But Conor notices the details no one else does.

Like how Nate always knows where Conor is in a room, even when he’s pretending not to look. Like how he repeats Conor’s insults later, mocking them, but keeps the exact phrasing. The rhythm. Like how Conor can derail Nate’s entire mood with a single raised eyebrow.

There’s a moment, small, stupid, so utterly telling, when Nate is meant to leave early. He’s said as much. Complained about the schedule. Swore he’s not sticking around for Conor’s bullshit. Then Conor laughs at something someone else says. Loud, unrestrained, head tipped back. Nate pauses mid-step. Just for a second. He stays. No one calls him on it. No one needs to.

Nate’s internal reasoning is a masterclass in denial. He tells himself he sticks around because Conor’s annoying and someone needs to keep him in check. Because it’s funny to watch him get carried away. Because leaving would look like losing. He does not tell himself the truth, which is that Conor makes the air feel charged. That things feel sharper, brighter, more alive when Conor’s around. That it’s been a long time since anyone’s gotten under his skin this deeply without asking permission.

Conor, meanwhile, never once claims ownership. That’s another trick. He doesn’t grab. He doesn’t demand. He lets Nate come to him in a thousand tiny ways, each one deniable on its own. A glance returned. A comment answered. A step not taken away.

When Nate snaps at him, Conor looks pleased, not offended. When Nate ignores him, Conor waits. And when Nate laughs, really laughs, caught off guard by something Conor says, Conor goes quiet for half a second, like he’s storing it away.

There’s one night when they end up leaning against the same railing, looking out at nothing in particular. The conversation has dwindled to comfortable silence, which is dangerous territory for men like them. Nate shifts his weight. Conor mirrors it without thinking.

“This the first time you shut up in days,” Nate mutters.

Conor doesn’t look at him. “You ever stop listening?”

Nate stiffens. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. He hates that Conor’s right. He hates more that Conor says it without malice. Something unspoken settles between them then. Not peace. Not resolution. Just acknowledgment. Like two fighters touching gloves before the bell. A recognition of what’s already there.

Later, Nate will swear he doesn’t care. He’ll say Conor’s just noise. Just a problem waiting to be solved. He’ll tell himself that whatever pull exists is one-sided, or imagined, or temporary. Yet Nate leans in when Conor speaks softer. How his posture loosens when Conor grins instead of boasts. He bristles when anyone else gets Conor’s attention too easily.

Wrapped around Conor’s finger doesn’t mean obedient. It doesn’t mean gentle. It means attuned. It means responsive. It means that somewhere along the line, without ever agreeing to it, Nate started orbiting.

Conor knows. He’s always known. He treats it like a secret shared only with himself. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t gloat. Just waits, patient as a man who knows the fight is already leaning his way.

And Nate? Nate will figure it out eventually. Or he won’t. Either way, Conor will be right there, grinning, infuriating, magnetic, watching Nate circle and swear and deny, wrapped so tight he doesn’t even feel the pull anymore.