Movement, and Attraction: The Craft of Romantic Tension

In fiction, romantic desire almost never announces itself cleanly. When it does, the result often feels thin or schematic. One of the most reliable ways to build convincing romantic tension is to let desire surface through action rather than dialogue, allowing small physical choices, habits, and gestures to carry emotional weight. These moments do not need to be grand or explicit. In fact, the quieter and more incidental they appear, the more persuasive they often become.

Jane Austen understood this well. In Pride and Prejudice, Darcy’s growing attraction to Elizabeth Bennet is first articulated through what he notices. He watches her expressions, registers her reactions, and begins to adjust his behavior around her long before he admits anything aloud. The famous moment where he “unconsciously” admires the expression of her eyes is particularly telling. Desire alters what the character notices. Austen allows readers to feel that change without spelling it out, trusting that action at the level of perception is already a form of revelation.

Tolstoy works similarly in Anna Karenina, particularly in the early scenes between Levin and Kitty. Levin’s awkward physical presence, his hesitations, his inability to be at ease in social settings, all communicate his longing more clearly than any polished declaration could. His desire is legible because it interferes with his body. He fumbles, he misjudges timing, he becomes hyperaware of his own movements. The reader understands the depth of his feeling through this friction.

In more contemporary fiction, this principle remains vital. Sally Rooney’s novels offer clear examples of how small actions can carry disproportionate emotional charge. In Normal People, the intimacy between Marianne and Connell often emerges through minute negotiations of space, who sits where, who reaches out first, who pulls away. Dialogue remains sparse and frequently evasive. What matters is how characters modulate distance and contact, and how those choices change over time.

Similarly, in Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, the romantic tension between Stevens and Miss Kenton unfolds almost entirely through restraint. The charged moments are those in which Stevens refuses to act, or acts too late, or chooses duty over impulse. When Miss Kenton adjusts flowers or lingers in doorways, those gestures accumulate meaning precisely because the novel refuses overt romantic speech. The emotional force arrives through what remains unresolved in the body.

For writers, the craft implication is clear. Romantic desire gains texture when it is embedded in behavior rather than stated outright. This requires close attention to what characters do when they are unsure of themselves. Desire often produces hesitation, misalignment, or overcorrection. A character might volunteer to help when it is unnecessary, linger after a task is complete, or notice details that previously escaped them. These actions may appear neutral on the surface, but within the relational context they become charged.

Writers frequently include moments of physical action without fully realizing what those moments are communicating. A manuscript critique from a book publishing consultant can help identify where a scene is already doing more work than the author recognizes, and where it is undercut by unnecessary explanation. Often the issue is not that desire is missing from the page, but that it is being overtranslated into dialogue, flattening what could have remained alive in gesture.

During manuscript critique, a consultant might point out that a single action carries sufficient emotional information, making a following paragraph of explanation redundant. For example, if a character straightens another character’s collar and then withdraws their hand too quickly, that gesture may already express longing, restraint, and fear. Explaining it risks diluting its effect. A skilled critique helps the writer trust the action and remove the scaffolding.

Conversely, critique can also reveal where actions are too vague to register. A note such as “they spent time together” tells the reader very little. A consultant can push the writer to specify what that time looks like. Are they working side by side without speaking? Are they avoiding eye contact? Are they finding excuses to remain in the same room? Precision at this level transforms generic proximity into something more meaningful and intimate.

What distinguishes compelling romantic fiction is the accumulation of small, charged choices that alter how characters move through the world. Desire reshapes attention, posture, timing, and restraint. When writers learn to dramatize those shifts through action, romance becomes something the reader experiences rather than something they are told exists.

Writing desire through action respects both character and reader. It allows intimacy to emerge organically, honors the complexity of human attraction, and creates space for revision to sharpen what is already alive on the page. With careful craft and attentive critique, romance in fiction can remain subtle, precise, and deeply felt without ever needing to announce itself.