Nathan Scott was pissed off.

It wasn't a strange feeling. He'd been angry for as long as he could remember, and half the time, he wasn't even sure why. He was pissed when he didn't make the shot. He was pissed when he did make it, and his dad didn't even seem impressed. He was pissed about not getting to play enough, or when coach never gave him a break. He was pissed when he saw his dad's bastard son, that Lucas, partially because he hated that there was someone else that was part of him, and partially because he was so damn jealous that that kid got to live without the constant pressure.

Today, however, he was pissed off at his girlfriend, Peyton Sawyer.

Nathan and Peyton rarely saw eye to eye. In fact, their worldviews were so far apart that the fact that he was always shocked when they managed to agree on anything. If he loved a song, she hated it, and he couldn't stand to listen to that bullshit she always played. "It makes her moody," he often thought.

Today, the issue at hand was how Peyton was getting to school.

It was trivial, and they both knew it, but somehow it had still escalated into a constant argument between them, and neither of them were willing to give in.

Nathan wanted to drive his girlfriend to school. He didn't see what was wrong with that, in fact, he told her, "There are plenty of girls who would be HAPPY to have me drive them to school in the mornings," he'd told her.

Peyton didn't miss a beat.

"Maybe you should drive them, then," she'd said, dryly.

For the first week of school, he'd won the argument. Peyton wasn't especially sentimental, but there was a point at which a girl couldn't refute natural charm, and Nathan had used it like a pro.

"I just want to get to drive to school with you, you know?" He'd said sweetly, "Plus, I want to be the first person you see in the mornings."

She'd rolled her eyes, but she let him, but things had quickly turned sour. Each day, Nathan got to his car, finding Peyton sitting on his hood (which he'd told her NUMEROUS times he didn't like), and each time she was more pissed off. She'd sit with her arms crossed over whichever band t-shirt she was wearing that day and it always took him the whole ride home to get her to even talk to him.

Yesterday it had taken him a particularly long time to get to the car (he'd stayed after a bit shooting with Tim in the gym), she hadn't waited. She'd written on a piece of paper, ripped from her notebook, "I'm not waiting for you anymore," and fastened it under his windshield.

He didn't call. He didn't challenge it. He just showed up the next day, honked, and waited for her. She didn't come down.

He knocked on the door. She didn't answer.

She'd already left for school, and now, he was waiting for her. "She probably planned it this way," he thought bitterly.

He pulled into the parking lot with obvious anger. Controlling his temper had never been something he was good at, and he had the foul record to prove it.

He screeched into the parking lot, slammed the car into park, and went to find her.

She was standing in the commons area, talking to Brooke and clutching that damn sketchbook. When he was a few feet away from her, he called her name, just loudly enough to make it clear that he was serious, but not loud enough to make a scene.

She turned around, and he saw her visibly brace herself for the argument. For a second he wanted to just pass it off like nothing had happened, pull her in for a hug and have a great day. What did it really matter how she got to school anyway? Sure, it was impatient of her not to wait for him, but was it really worth….

… and then she rolled her eyes.

She always did that when she was so damn sure she was right, and he was wrong, and he hated it.

She began the argument.

"So, you're still alive. Let me guess, you spent the night here. Are you just surprised I'm not still waiting by your car?"

"Shut up," he said, plainly. Sometimes he just didn't know what to say to her sarcasm.

She began to speak, but he cut her off.

"Fuck it, Peyton," he said, "I'm so sick of this bullshit."

"You're sick of it?" she said, cocking her head to the side and taking a step towards him. "Listen, asshole, when I said I was sick of waiting for you, I didn't just mean after school. I'm sick of waiting for you to grow up and sick of waiting for you to stop acting like the jerk you said you weren't…. and, honestly, I'm sick of waiting for me to get fed up with it. Lets just get this disaster of a relationship over with."

He didn't know what to say.

They'd fought before, but this was the first time ending the relationship was put on the table, and it scared him. Half of him wanted to scream back, call her names, and walk away and never look back. But that other part knew, simply knew, that this couldn't be done. As much as he hated fighting with her, as much as he hated all this bullshit, he knew that trying to be without her now would be like trying to stop breathing, or stop playing basketball. No matter how much it might suck, you push through because you have to. It's necessary.

He wouldn't say something like that to her. It was cheesy, he knew, and letting her know how he really felt was just not going to happen.

"God, Peyton," he said, after what seemed like an eternity of silence. His voice wasn't angry, and it wasn't sad, it was just empty, as though he was wondering how they got there.

In one fast motion he reached forward, grabbing her by her waist and pulling her towards him, locking his eyes on her. They were silent, and it seemed like everything around them was still, despite the fact that the bell was ringing and students all around them was swarming into the building for class.

He was the first to speak.

"It's not over," he said. It wasn't a demand, and he wasn't pleading. He was just stating a fact.

She nodded. She knew it just as well as he did. This wasn't over, despite the fact that maybe, just maybe, they'd both be better off if it was.

The commons emptied, and then she kissed him.

It wasn't a sweet kiss, but it wasn't an angry kiss. It was a Hollywood kiss, the kind a couple has on the screen before the man goes off to battle. It was a first kiss, a last kiss: when their lips met, it was like electricity ran through their bodies.

It became clear: they were staying together for the chemistry.