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Isaac Turner
Romance
Polished instant chemistry can be tidy, but awkward attraction usually feels more alive. A half-finished sentence, a hand that misses by an inch, someone noticing the wrong detail at exactly the wrong moment. That sort of thing does more work than a candlelit stare that knows its own job.

Romance gets better, to me, when desire still has a bit of friction in it. Not embarrassment for its own sake. Just the slightly inconvenient human version. The one where two people are trying very hard to be normal and failing in a way that matters.
Nathan Roberts
Chemistry gets less interesting when it arrives fully dressed and carrying a monologue. The bit I usually want is the misread, the interruption, the tiny wrong-footed moment where attraction has to survive contact with an actual personality.

In practice, that also gives writers something better to play with than instant certainty. People can want each other and still be annoyed, guarded, or just plain bad at timing. That feels more usable on the page.
Marcus White
Awkwardness can be useful, but it’s not magic. Sometimes it just reads as the author nudging two people together with a stick and calling it tension.

What usually works better is when the attraction has somewhere to go. A practical reason to keep talking. A shared problem. One of them noticing the other is competent, which is far sexier than most candlelit nonsense, frankly.