“They have chemistry” is a lovely response to a fictional couple, but it does not give us much to discuss. I want to look a little closer: what do these people notice, how do they respond, and what becomes possible between them afterward?
Chemistry is a reader’s response, not a measurable ingredient. You might be drawn to exuberant banter, quiet attention, or the way two capable people solve a problem. The aim here is to give that response useful detail, not talk you into feeling a spark that never arrived.
Start with something that belongs to this pair
Let me introduce two invented adults in a community print studio. Mara enjoys the precise work of setting type. Jules offers to help, and she declines. Later, Jules offers to handle delivery instead.
That second offer tells us something the first could not: Jules heard what mattered to Mara and adjusted. The gesture supports her without taking over the part she values.
It is not automatically romantic. Friends listen too. But within a story developing attraction, this kind of specific attention can give the connection substance. Repeated descriptions of someone’s beautiful eyes may establish desire without showing the same understanding.
Let the response travel both ways
Now imagine Mara remembering that Jules mentioned a difficult meeting. She asks about it. Jules says, “Not yet,” and she leaves room for that answer. Later, Jules chooses to return to the conversation.
I’d follow that sequence rather than count equal favors. Reciprocity need not look identical: one character offers practical help, another asks a careful question. What matters is that both people influence the relationship.
An imbalance can be intentional at the beginning. One person may recognize their feelings sooner. The useful question is whether the story notices and develops that difference, rather than asking the reader to supply an entire missing side of the attraction.
Put the clever line inside a conversation
Here is a small invented exchange:
Mara studies a crooked test print. “You said you were good under pressure.”
Jules looks at the press. “I should have asked what kind.”
Mara slides over a clean sheet. “One more try?”
The joke comes from their shared task. The invitation lets Jules be imperfect without ending the interaction. If the exchange works, its appeal comes partly from that changing ease, not just from having a witty sentence.
Quiet dialogue can do similar work. A plain answer, a pause respected, or an honest disagreement may reveal more than a polished compliment. Silence still needs context; it is not automatic agreement or consent.
Use the dance floor to test what the attraction changes
A dance scene gives a writer a practical constraint: two characters occupy actual space, and each choice affects what the other can do. I’d use that constraint to revise chemistry, without treating dancing well together as proof that a relationship will work.
Here is a fictional continuation for Mara and Jules at a community dance evening:
“One song?” Jules asks.
“Yes. But not in the middle. I’m still learning.”
They find space near the edge, clear of the doorway. When the music ends, Jules releases her hand. Mara keeps her own hand open between them.
“Another?” she asks. “Same place.”
The useful detail is her unchanged preference. Mara can want more time with Jules without becoming a different dancer or surrendering the boundary she just set. Jules’s response creates room for her next invitation; it does not earn a guaranteed reward. Nor does agreeing to a dance imply consent to anything beyond that dance.
For a writing exercise, sketch the scene’s physical arrangement on paper. Mark each character, the available space and the exit. Then annotate three moments:
- Invitation: what is actually offered, and can the other person decline?
- Adjustment: what does someone change after hearing the answer?
- New choice: what can the responding character now initiate, refuse or ask for?
Revise one generic sentence such as “They moved perfectly together” into those observable choices. Keep only the movement details that change the interaction. A foot-by-foot account can bury the emotional turn, while a hand that is released at the right moment may carry it.
You can do this entirely at a desk. It is a scene-blocking exercise. For the related problem of keeping actions in order, see mapping a choreography sequence.
Keep spark and compatibility distinct
A book can make attraction vivid while leaving you doubtful about a shared future. It can also portray a dependable partnership without generating the energy you hoped for.
I’d let those be two observations. “Their arguments were compelling, but I wanted to see more repair afterward” says more than deciding the couple had either perfect chemistry or none.
Likewise, explicitness does not establish connection. A closed-door story can create considerable desire, and an on-page intimate scene still needs the surrounding relationship to give it meaning.
Try one scene-level question
For readers: “What did one character understand here that they did not understand before?” Then look at whether the next choice reflects that understanding.
For writers: remove the explanation that says the attraction is irresistible and reread the exchange. What remains for the reader to notice? You may need a more particular response rather than another declaration of intensity.
The publisher interview How to write a romance novel and Michelle Major’s essay on character chemistry offer further craft perspectives. My practical starting point is smaller: one action, one response, and a next choice that has genuinely changed.
For a closer look at what characters say and leave unsaid, continue with dialogue, banter and subtext.
MarGo! editorial feature · AI-assisted, in the MarGo! first-person voice. Not a personal experience or product test unless stated.