You know the kind of romance I mean. The stolen glances. The almost-touch. The quiet nights where two people hover near the edge of saying something real. The slow burn.
It’s one of the most beloved tropes in romance, and one of the most misunderstood. A slow burn doesn’t mean nothing happens. It means everything matters. Every moment builds tension. Every delay deepens investment. Every time one character walks away instead of confessing? That’s fuel. By the time they finally kiss, it’s not just satisfying. It’s a release.
As a reader, I love a slow burn because it mirrors real-life emotional risk. Most of us don’t fall in love on page one. We hesitate. We protect ourselves. We misread the signs. Watching fictional characters do the same makes their eventual connection feel earned.
As a writer, it’s even trickier. You have to keep readers close while keeping characters apart. That means chemistry has to smolder in every conversation, conflict, and brush of the hand. You have to give your characters reasons to resist, like emotional wounds, bad timing, even power imbalances, and then slowly peel those reasons away.
In Painting Celia, the tension builds through silence, proximity, and creative vulnerability. A deal between strangers—“You can live in my pool house if you teach me to paint”—becomes a stage for intimacy. The slow burn gives the characters time to grow not just toward each other, but into themselves.
That’s what I love about this kind of story. It’s not just about falling in love. It’s about becoming the kind of person who’s ready to receive it.
Now you know what I prefer. Are you Team Slow Burn or Team Insta-Love?
