They don't talk about it, mostly. It's a secret after all, and if you want to keep something a secret, you don't talk about it.
It's sound logic, Rachel thinks. Besides, it isn't like she really wants to talk about how Santana looks with her back to the sun, light streaming through the gaps in the curtain of her hair. Not like she wants to bring up how she looks enchanting even with a scowl on her face, how her smile seems to almost shimmer in an entirely irritating, yet charismatic way, regardless of the circumstances.
They don't talk about it. It's better that way; secrets stay just that. Secrets. It clicks.
"Do you love me?" Rachel asks her, hands outstretched over her head against the grass, afternoon July sun pouring onto her face as she turns her head slightly to get a look at the taller girl, who doesn't even really acknowledge that Rachel even spoke. She shuffles a little in her spot, and Rachel briefly wishes that the sunglasses weren't obscuring her eyes, because no matter what Santana says, Rachel knows that she's easy to read—like a book, really—through her eyes.
"Did you say something?" Santana asks after a moment, sitting up slightly. Her lips are a thin line, and Rachel swallows, shaking her head.
It's dark outside, and she can hear traffic on the freeway even though it's after midnight. There isn't any light in the room. The curtains are drawn but the windows are open, the bed is made but she's lying on top of the blankets.
In the dark, Santana's hands find hers and it's almost like they fit perfectly. A hand and a glove, a guitar and its case, two girls in love, quietly kissing in the dark.
And Rachel wants to ask again, but Santana barely leaves her enough room to breathe between kisses that are gentle and harsh, promising and selfish, satisfactory, and yet, not enough.
"I've never met someone like you," is how it begins. Rachel's breaking rule number one. The fundamentals, really, but it needs to be said.
Santana looks up from her perch near the window, overlooking the street before her eyes narrow, sensing whatever it is that Rachel is planning (because even she doesn't know). "What's that supposed to mean?"
Rachel takes a deep breath, and for the first time in her life, she has stage fright. It's like she forgot a line, she's dropped her cue, she can't recall the lyrics.
The truth is, she could monologue for years on how she feels, be right on time, choreographed perfectly. Sing a thousand love songs with the sweetest lyrics and the most beautiful melody. But she can't seem to recall any of that right now.
She doesn't know how it happens, but she's crushing her lips to Santana's, and it's almost enough, because something finally just clicks. Really—clicks.