There are two kinds of romantic tension: the kind you write, and the kind that sneaks up behind you while you’re trying to act normal and suddenly you’re ten seconds from kissing someone in a Lidl car park. My job? Capture both. Without sounding like I’ve been possessed by a 2014 Buzzfeed headline or the ghost of a Mills & Boon editor.

Romantic chemistry isn’t about characters liking each other. It’s about what they’re not saying. What they’re trying very hard not to feel. The kind of energy that hums through a scene like a faulty plug socket—you know something’s coming, and it’s probably going to spark.

Bantery Does Not Equal Chemistry

Look, I love a bit of snarky back-and-forth. Who doesn’t? But two people being clever at each other for three chapters straight isn’t tension—it’s dialogue fencing. The difference between banter and chemistry is vulnerability. Give me the moment where someone almost says how they feel, then swerves. Or the one where their hand lingers too long on the other’s arm and neither of them mentions it. Chemistry is what you notice after they’ve walked away.

Sometimes the most electric line in a chapter isn’t a line at all. It’s the pause before someone speaks. It’s the breath someone holds. It’s what a character does with their hands when they’re trying to stay calm and failing miserably.

Let Them Orbit

Characters with real chemistry should orbit each other. Like gravity’s involved. You put them in the same room, and even if they’re doing completely unrelated things—folding laundry, trimming herbs, typing—they should pull toward each other. Maybe it’s a glance. Maybe it’s proximity. Maybe they’re both pretending the room isn’t fifteen degrees hotter now.

When I write these scenes, I don’t ask myself, What are they saying? I ask, What would they be doing if the other one wasn’t there? And then I watch how that changes once they are.

Small Stakes, Big Feelings

A lot of writers go straight for the heavy stuff—life-or-death stakes, grand confessions, tears in the rain. Which is fine. But I think romantic chemistry lives in the small things. The tiny, quiet choices. He brings her a coffee exactly how she likes it without asking. She pretends she didn’t wait up for him but leaves the light on.

These are the things that crack us open. Not the speeches. The details.

Build It Like You’re Not Building It

Chemistry should never announce itself. The reader should feel it building before it’s obvious. It’s like layering perfume—subtle, gradual, and by the time it hits, it’s undeniable. I scatter clues. I loop back to gestures and phrases. I give them callbacks. Sometimes I repeat a line of dialogue with a twist, just to show how much everything’s changed.

And sometimes I let them fail. Chemistry needs friction. Two people sliding into perfect harmony from page one? Boring. Give me the mess. The bad timing. The slow realization that oh no… this person isn’t going away.

When in Doubt, Body Language

Internal monologue is great, but there’s nothing quite like physical tension. The kind where they’re standing too close and neither one of them mentions it. Or one leans in and the other doesn’t move away. Or they’re touching—accidentally, obviously—and the air changes. My rule of thumb: if you can feel a pulse in the room, you’re getting it right.

No overwriting. No “their eyes locked and the world stopped spinning.” Just show me what changes when they’re near each other.

Chemistry Doesn’t Mean Compatibility

Last bit. Big one. Chemistry doesn’t mean the characters are “meant to be.” It means they could be—if they’re brave enough. If they show up. If they undo a few layers. Some of the best romantic tension I’ve ever written didn’t lead to a happy ending—it led to the choice to change. Sometimes the chemistry is what cracks them open, and sometimes it’s what sends them running. Either way, it matters.

Because at the end of the day, romantic chemistry is not about perfection. It’s about reaction. The kind of reaction that makes a reader pause, feel something in their chest, and think, I know that feeling.

That’s when I know it’s working.