I have a confession: I judge books by their characters. Not their covers, not their plot twists, not even their settings (though an atmospheric backdrop never hurts). If a character feels flat, robotic, or worse—like they exist purely to deliver witty one-liners and nothing else—I’m out. Because here’s the thing: romance isn’t about grand gestures or fate stepping in at precisely the right moment. It’s about people. Messy, complicated, flawed, and wonderful people.

Step One: Forget Perfection

Nobody falls in love with perfection. Not in real life, not in fiction. If I wanted to read about someone with an immaculate wardrobe, flawless decision-making skills, and the emotional range of a teaspoon, I’d pick up a corporate HR manual. Real characters have baggage, weird habits, and at least one regrettable haircut in their past. They make bad choices. They misread situations. They say the wrong thing at the worst time, and sometimes, they make it even worse by doubling down. But that’s what makes them real—and, more importantly, worth rooting for.

When I create a character, I ask myself: what’s their worst quality? Are they stubborn to the point of self-sabotage? Do they deflect with humor instead of admitting their feelings? Have they convinced themselves they don’t deserve happiness? If a character doesn’t have at least one trait that would drive their best friend a little bit mad, I’m not done writing them yet.

Step Two: Make Them Earn It

Great love stories aren’t just about attraction; they’re about growth. A character shouldn’t be the same person at the end of the book as they were at the beginning. Sure, they might start off emotionally constipated, commitment-phobic, or convinced that love is a capitalist scam invented to sell overpriced roses, but if they’re still exactly that person 300 pages later? What’s the point?

Growth doesn’t have to mean a dramatic, soul-altering transformation (though I do love a good “I didn’t believe in love but now I’d fight a bear for you” moment). It can be small. Subtle. Learning to communicate. Letting their guard down. Realizing they don’t have to handle everything alone. The key is that something shifts. Otherwise, you’re writing a character arc that’s more of a straight line—and nobody rereads a straight line.

Step Three: Let Them Have a Life Outside the Romance

Characters who exist solely for their love story feel about as real as those glossy stock photos of couples laughing over salad. A well-developed character has wants, responsibilities, and relationships outside of their romantic interest. They have a job (or at least, a complicated relationship with capitalism). They have friendships that don’t conveniently vanish once the love interest appears. They have hobbies, even if one of them is doom-scrolling property listings they can’t afford.

One of my favorite ways to develop characters is to ask: What would they be doing on a Sunday morning if the love interest didn’t exist? Would they be working on a stubborn crossword puzzle with a cup of coffee? Taking their dog to the park? Binge-watching a show they pretend not to like? If I can’t answer that, my character isn’t fully formed yet.

Step Four: Dialogue That Feels Like Eavesdropping

If I had a euro for every time I read dialogue that sounded like two AI chatbots discussing their feelings, I could buy one of those overpriced coffees in Madrid where they draw a tiny heart in the foam. Real people don’t speak in monologues or perfectly structured sentences. They interrupt. They trail off. They say one thing but mean another. They have inside jokes, unfinished thoughts, and verbal tics. The best dialogue doesn’t read like dialogue—it reads like you just happened to overhear a conversation between two people who exist beyond the page.

A great trick for testing dialogue? Read it out loud. If it feels stiff or unnatural, it probably is. If it makes you cringe a little, congratulations—you’ve just dodged writing a scene that would make readers roll their eyes.

Step Five: Let Them Mess Up

Romance thrives on tension, and tension thrives on mistakes. Miscommunication, bad timing, running into an ex at the worst possible moment—these things happen. But mistakes need to feel organic, not forced. Readers can smell manufactured drama a mile away.

I always ask: Is this mistake something this character would actually make based on who they are? If the answer is yes, great. If the answer is no, and I’m shoehorning it in just to create conflict, it’s time to rethink. The best romantic tension comes from characters making choices that feel real, even when they’re bad ones.

The Final Test: Would You Miss Them?

At the end of the book, when the last page is turned and the happily-ever-after is sealed, do these characters stay with you? Do they feel like people you might run into in a coffee shop, or pass on the street, or hear laughing at a bar on a Saturday night? If the answer is yes, then you’ve done it. You’ve created characters who feel real.

And if not? Well. There’s always the next draft.