You didn't know when it had begun to change. You suppose it was when you two had first kissed differently. When you had leaned in slowly and captured those luscious pink lips, when she gasped against yours, her dexterous hands finding some sort of anchoring in your shoulders. When you weren't just finding some way to ravish her lithe body like you did every other night.
You remember it so clearly.
The way her powerful hands ran across the milky skin of your back, her trimmed nails digging into the toned flesh as you placed delicate kisses along every inch of her delicious caramel-coloured skin. You savoured the way her skin tasted, the way she writhed under your ministrations, the way your name left her lips every time you managed to send her over the edge.
You remember the way she made you feel loved.
You remember the way she planted tender kisses along the inside of your quivering thighs, the way she had managed to find each dip and curve, the way her loving coffee-brown orbs met yours as she sent you over the edge the first time, and the same for the next few times. You remember the way you held her afterwards, the way she breathlessly whispered sweet nothings into your ear.
And you realised, as you began to drift into sleep, that maybe you were falling in love with Santana, too.