LS Phoenix's Blog, page 19

How to Write Exes With Tension So Thick You Can Feel It

Because nothing simmers like unresolved history.

There’s no tension quite like the kind that comes from two people who used to love each other… and now pretend they don’t. Writing exes is one of the most emotionally charged experiences as an author—and when done right, it practically crackles on the page.

So how do you write that can’t-look-away kind of tension between former lovers?

Let’s break it down.

1. Skip the Closure

Exes are all about what wasn’t said. If your characters ended cleanly, they’re not going to carry that delicious tension into their reunion. Leave things messy. Let them argue about who left who, or worse—pretend they don’t care.

🗯️ What to write:

“I forgot you existed.”

“It was three years ago. Move on.”

“Trust me. I did.”

We all know they didn’t. And that’s the hook.

2. Lean Into Sarcasm & Subtext

Words are weapons here. Think: banter with bite. Passive-aggressive jabs. Petty remarks that hold a little too much meaning.

It’s not about open declarations—it’s about hiding the truth beneath layers of denial.

3. Let the Body Speak

Sometimes what’s not said is louder than any line of dialogue. Use body language to heighten the tension:

A glance that lingers too long

A touch that ends too quickly

Stepping closer than necessary, then backing away like it never happened

16🔥 Example From 

The Ex I Never Got Over

I go to pass him on the balcony, but he doesn’t move.

Just stands there—broad chest blocking the only way out, arms crossed like he owns the night.

“Still walking away from things you don’t want to deal with?”

I grit my teeth. “Still pretending you didn’t blow everything up?”

He leans in just slightly, his voice low and hot against my ear.

“Only thing I regret blowing was your back out that night.”

My breath catches. I hate that it does.

And I hate that he notices.

Writing exes is about weaponizing history. Every word, every touch, every near-kiss is layered with everything they never got to say—and everything they still feel

Writers & Readers:

What’s your favorite book where exes reunite and the tension is off the charts?

Drop your recs or tips below—I’m always here for more emotional chaos. 👀

The Best “Unfinished Business” Romances

 

Because some exes never really stay in the past…

There’s something about a romance rooted in unfinished business that hits so differently. Maybe it’s the history. Maybe it’s the heartbreak. But when two people who once meant everything to each other are suddenly face-to-face again? Yeah… I’m all in.

Whether it ended in silence, shouting, or sheer devastation, one thing is certain: they weren’t finished. And watching that kind of tension boil over into a second chance—or a second explosion—is pure reader catnip.

Why This Trope Works So Damn Well

Unfinished business romances thrive on raw emotion. These couples have:

– A shared past they can’t outrun

– Unresolved tension that simmers just beneath the surface

– Moments where a single look says, “I remember everything.”

It’s not just about rekindling a flame. It’s about navigating what was never dealt with—and finding out if the love they had still stands after everything.

Book Recs: My Favorite “We’re Not Done” Romances

💔 Before We Were Strangers by Renée Carlino

College lovers torn apart by circumstance meet again years later in a subway station. Emotional, lyrical, unforgettable.

💔 Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

Academic rivals… who used to be something more. When their paths cross again, old wounds and unexpected chemistry collide.

💔 Every Summer After by Carley Fortune

A lakehouse, a teenage love story, and a betrayal that ruined everything. Years later, they’re both back—and nothing is the same.

💔 The Idea of You by Robinne Lee

Okay, technically they’re not exes, but that reunion scene will ruin you. Talk about tension and unfinished emotion.

💔 Say You Still Love Me by K.A. Tucker

Camp sweethearts turned strangers, now back in each other’s orbit in a world that doesn’t make it easy. So many feels.

Sneak Peek: 

The Ex I Never Got Over

Here’s a tiny taste of my current WIP—because you know I couldn’t write this post without diving in myself:

I don’t expect to see him at the wedding.

I definitely don’t expect to be seated at the same damn table.

But there he is—smirking like he didn’t leave me broken on a bathroom floor three years ago.

“Long time,” he says.

I grab my champagne and lift my chin.

“Not long enough.”

Full of unresolved tension, sharp dialogue, and the kind of chemistry that never really died, The Ex I Never Got Over is my love letter to all of us who wanted to scream “we’re not done” at someone who walked away too soon.

 

Your Turn:

What’s your favorite “unfinished business” romance?

Drop your recs in the comments—I’m always down for more emotional damage. 💔

 

Candlelight Confessions and Power Outage Hookups

What is it about a power outage that makes things so much hotter?

No distractions. No excuses. Just flickering candles, shared wine, and the kind of confessions that never come out in the light.

In The Beach Hookup, when the power cuts out, Ellie and Ryan stop fighting and start feeling. And it’s the kind of moment where time slows down, tension snaps—and everything changes.

One night. One kiss. One hookup they didn’t see coming.

Want to read the full scene? Come back tomorrow. We’re lighting the candles for you.

The Art of the Vacation Fling

Vacations are supposed to be relaxing, right?

Beach days, long walks, fruity drinks… and maybe a little romance you didn’t plan for.

There’s something irresistible about a good vacation fling. It’s temporary. It’s low-stakes. It’s “what happens at the beach stays at the beach”… until it doesn’t.

Ellie wanted solitude. Ryan wanted a break. What they got was each other—and a hookup neither of them can forget.

Get ready to feel the sand, the heat, and the fallout. Because The Beach Hookup lands this week, and it’s anything but casual.

The Beach Hook Up - Short Story

 

The Beach Hook Up

Here’s What to ExpectShy artist.Hot surf instructor.Double-booked beach house.One unforgettable night.

The Beach Hookup is a short, spicy forced-proximity story with opposites who crash into each other like waves on the shore.

It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s sweet in the way vacation flings always are… until they feel like more.

Grab a glass of wine. Sit back and relax.

………………..

The key sticks in the lock, which feels like a metaphor for my entire life. I jiggle it, mutter a curse, and finally get the door open, just in time for the coastal breeze to hit me like a welcome-home hug. Salty, warm, a little chaotic. It smells like freedom. Like no expectations. Like silence, which is exactly what I came here for.

I drag my suitcase inside and kick the door shut behind me, my eyes drinking in the soft blues and sandy tones of the little beach house. Whitewashed floors. Breezy curtains. A cozy deck overlooking the ocean. It’s perfect. Quiet. Secluded.

Exactly what I need to finish this commission without my sister popping in to check on me, or my phone buzzing with passive-aggressive reminders that I “should really think about getting out more.”

Well, this is me getting out. Alone. Unbothered. In creative flow.

I pad through the open kitchen, trailing my fingertips across the countertops, already imagining where I’ll set up my easel. The living room has massive windows, and I can almost see the brushstrokes forming. This place is inspiration wrapped in wood and waves.

Until a thud echoes down the hall.

I freeze.

Another sound, lower this time, like a voice. A male voice.

I grab the closest thing I can find, a rolled-up magazine and creep toward the hallway like some underqualified Nancy Drew.

A door opens. And then—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He’s shirtless. Dripping wet. Wearing nothing but board shorts and an irritated smile. Sinfully gorgeous, which is besides the point, and he’s standing in my hallway like he owns the place.

“What the hell?” I manage, gripping the magazine like it might transform into a sword if I believe hard enough.

He arches a brow. “That’s what I was about to say.”

“Who are you?”

“Drew. I’m staying here this week.”

“No, I’m staying here this week.”

A pause. His eyes flick over me, barely, but enough to make me cross my arms over my chest like some kind of modest reflex.

“You rent through Seabreeze Properties?” he asks.

“Yeah. Booked it months ago.”

He exhales and scrubs a hand through his damp hair. “Same. I got the confirmation email yesterday.”

I blink. “Wait. You just booked it?”

“Last-minute surf trip.” He shrugs, like that explains everything. “Needed to get out of the city.”

“And ruin a stranger’s quiet week in the process?”

A corner of his mouth curves. “Didn’t plan on sharing the place. But hey, I don’t mind the company. And your name is?”

I fold my arms tighter. “Ellie.” And I do very much mind it.

He grins like I just confirmed something for him. “Nice to meet you, Ellie.”

He walks past me like this isn’t the most outrageous invasion of personal space I’ve ever experienced, grabbing a towel from the back of the couch and slinging it around his neck.

“Look, I’m sure it’s a double-booking mistake. I’ll text the rental company and sort it out.”

“You do that,” I say, gripping my suitcase handle like I might launch it at him. “Because I paid for this whole week. I need the space.”

His eyes flick back to mine. “Yeah? And I need waves and peace and not getting murdered by a woman wielding Better Homes & Gardens.”

I glance at the rolled-up magazine in my hand, heat rushing to my face.

“I wasn’t going to hit you.”

He grins. “Sure you weren’t.”

The rental company responds thirty minutes later with a ‘sorry for the confusion’. They’re fully booked. No other options. No partial refunds.

Basically, we’re screwed.

I sit stiffly on the arm of the couch while Drew lounges on the other end like he’s already made himself at home, barefoot, cocky, and infuriatingly relaxed.

“We can make it work,” he says, sipping from a bottle of water I brought that he definitely didn’t ask if he could take. “It’s a big place. I’ll stay out of your way.”

“You don’t even know what my way is.”

“Let me guess—quiet mornings, no distractions, solo vibes?” He stretches his arms over his head, showing off a six-pack that has no business being that defined in real life.

My eyes dip, just for a second, but when they meet his again, he’s smirking. He definitely caught me looking. I try to will the heat burning in my cheeks to go away. Not so sure I’m succeeding because his smirk turns into a grin.

“I’ll keep the music low and wear clothes, if that helps.”

It does. Not that I’m admitting that.

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

He shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Ellie, you said, right?”

I nod, reluctantly.

“I’ll be in and out for most of the day. Surfing, grabbing food, crashing here when I’m wiped. You won’t even notice me.”

I already notice him. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Visually. 

But unless I want to pay for a hotel I can’t afford just to stick it to the hot intruder, I don’t have a better option.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m claiming the room with the balcony.”

“Deal.” He flashes a grin. “I’ll take the one with the out door shower.”

We settle into an uneasy rhythm.

I spend the afternoon unpacking and trying to sketch, my brain fighting to stay focused while he moves around like a walking distraction. Everything about him is loud. His footsteps, his laugh, the music he listens to while rinsing off after his third surf session of the day. Even when he’s quiet, he takes up space.

The guy is practically a golden retriever. Loud. Friendly. Soaked. Constantly shaking water off in my general direction.

I’m elbows-deep in a painting when he pops his head into the living room that evening.

“Hey, you eat?”

I glance up. “Do I eat in general? Or are you offering?”

He shrugs. “I’m making tacos. Can’t promise they’ll be good, but I won’t let you starve.”

I hesitate, then my stomach growls, which answers for me.

We eat on the deck, the sun dipping low behind the waves, the air warm with that sticky coastal breeze that makes your skin glow and your body hum.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, sipping a beer and watching me from across the table.

I arch a brow. “What did you expect?”

He leans back, his chair creaking. “I dunno. Uptight. Judgy. You’ve got a ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe.”

“That’s intentional.”

He laughs.

“You’re not what I expected either,” I admit, surprising us both.

“Oh yeah? What did you think?”

“That you’d be some bro-surfer cliché who talks in slang and hits on everything that breathes.”

He smirks. “Give me time.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. A little.

And that’s when the lights go out.

The entire house clicks into darkness, followed by a low mechanical whir as the fridge dies and Drew mutters something under his breath.

I blink at him across the table, my fork halfway to my mouth.

“Is this normal?” I ask.

He’s already standing. “Power goes out sometimes during storms. Happened the last time I stayed in this area. Usually comes back pretty quick.”

I hadn’t even noticed a storm rolling in, but now that I look, the sky is heavier. Hazy clouds have muscled out the stars, and the wind’s picked up just enough to make the deck creak.

He disappears inside, and a few seconds later, flickers of light dance through the windows. When I walk back in, he’s placing candles, actual candles, on the coffee table like this happens often.

“You just travel with candlelight ambiance on standby?”

He shrugs. “Beach houses always have some stashed. People love pretending they’re roughing it.”

“And you don’t?”

“Nah.” He leans back on the couch, his face bathed in a soft glow that makes his jawline look even sharper than usual.“Funny how quiet makes you pay attention to all the right things.”

That surprises me more than it should.

He pats the space beside him. “Come on. Power’s not coming back anytime soon. No Wi-Fi. No distractions. You might as well join me.”

I hesitate, but sitting in the dark in my room alone somehow feels weirder than sitting here with Drew and a couple of mood-lit tealights.

I drop onto the couch, leaving a whole cushion of space between us. He doesn’t comment on it, just hands me a half-filled glass of wine and settles deeper into the cushions.

“So,” he says, eyes on me now. “What’s your deal?”

I take a sip before answering. “That’s your idea of small talk?”

He smirks. “I don’t do small talk. I’m a go-big-or-go-home kind of guy.”

“Of course you are.”

“You strike me as the opposite. Type to think before you speak. Or sketch your feelings instead of saying them.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

His voice is softer now, the teasing edge still there but dulled under something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or that kind of lazy awareness that creeps in when the world slows down and you’re two glasses of wine into a mistake waiting to happen.

I shift slightly, and the movement brings my thigh closer to his. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him. Or maybe that’s me.

“You ever get tired of it?” he asks suddenly.

“Tired of what?”

“Being so… contained.”

I freeze. “I’m not—”

“You are. And it’s kinda hot, not gonna lie. But I wonder what would happen if you stopped holding everything in.”

My heart thuds hard in my chest. I laugh it off, trying to play it cool. “Is that your surfer way of saying you think I’m uptight?”

“Nope.” He leans in, voice low. “It’s my way of saying I think you’ve got heat under all that calm. And I’m dying to feel it.”

I should get up. I should totally shut this down.

But my fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass, and I glance at his mouth again, just for a second too long.

When I look back up, he’s watching me like he saw that. Like he knows I’m not going anywhere.

“You really think you’ve got me all figured out?” I ask, throat a little too dry.

“No,” he says. “But I know you’re staring at my mouth.”

I am. And he’s close now. Too close. His hand finds my knee, the heat of it making my breath hitch.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, eyes locked on mine.

I don’t. So he leans in and kisses me.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that makes time blur. One hand gripping my leg, the other cradling the back of my neck, like he already knows how I like to be held. How I like to be taken.

I sink into him before I even realize I’m moving. One moment we’re side by side, the next, I’m straddling his lap, and he’s dragging his mouth down my throat, his breath hot against my skin.

“You’re not exactly helping your good-girl image, Ellie,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.”

He laughs, and then I shut him up properly, my mouth on his, hands tugging at his shirt like it’s suddenly offensive that it exists at all.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me to the bedroom without breaking contact. The candles flicker as we pass, casting our shadows across the wall.

By the time he lays me down, we’re both breathing hard, eyes hungry. I reach for him, but he catches my wrists, pinning them to the mattress.

“Let me look at you.”

His voice is low. Rough. Like he’s holding back.

The heat in my body spikes. He kisses down my collarbone, then lower, his mouth moving over every new inch of skin like he’s memorizing me.

His hands slide beneath the hem of my tank top, pausing just long enough for my breath to catch before he tugs it over my head and tosses it aside. My bra follows, unclipped, peeled off and tossed.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the way his gaze drags over my chest makes my stomach tighten.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Ellie,” he murmurs, voice rough as his fingers skim the waistband of my shorts. “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”

I don’t say a word. I lift my hips instead, letting him tug them down, panties and all. There’s a second where I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but I don’t. His eyes are on me like I’m something rare. Like he’s not just looking, he’s starving for me.

I tug at the drawstring of his shorts and he helps, pushing them down and off in one smooth motion. He’s already hard. My god his cock is beautiful. Thick, smooth, and flushed at the tip, like it’s been aching for this as much as I have. He’s long enough to make my pulse skip, the kind of size that makes your mouth water and your thighs clench.

Then he reaches to the side, opens the nightstand drawer, and grabs a condom, because of course he would be the kind of guy who comes prepared.

“Good?” he asks, holding the foil packet up like he’s giving me one last out.

I nod.

He tears it open, rolls it on, and settles between my thighs, his hands sliding up my sides like he’s savoring every inch.

And when he finally slides inside me, it’s slow. Deep. Deliberate.

“Fuck, Ellie,” he whispers against my neck. “You feel better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?”

“Since the minute you first glared at me.”

He moves like he’s not in a rush, like we’ve got all night, like this is his only priority, and right now, it’s definitely mine.

He thrusts slow at first, deep and controlled, watching every reaction like he’s mapping me from the inside out. Like every moan, every gasp, is confirmation he’s doing exactly what he set out to do, ruin me for anyone else.

“Fuck, Ellie,” he grits out, voice gravelly against my ear. “You feel so good. So tight. So fucking perfect.”

My nails claw at his back, desperate for something to hold onto. His body is heat and pressure and everything I didn’t know I needed. I tilt my hips up and he groans, shifting deeper, angling just right, and God, it hits something that makes my vision blur.

“Right there,” I whisper, breathless.

He grins, that cocky smirk brushing against my neck. “There?”

He does it again, harder this time, and my mouth falls open with a sound I’ve never made before.

I cling to him, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. His rhythm picks up, every stroke rougher, filthier, as the room fills with the slap of skin and the ragged mess of our breathing.

His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and I shatter.

It rolls through me like a wave crashing the shore, fast, hard, all-consuming. My back arches off the bed, a strangled cry leaving my throat as my body clenches tight around him.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, his thrusts growing more erratic as I pulse around him.

“Ellie, shit—” His voice breaks, and he buries himself deep, holding there as his whole body tenses. A rough groan tears from his chest as he comes, and I swear, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Just heavy breathing. Damp skin and the echo of what we just did still buzzing between us. We’re a tangle of sweat-slick skin and tangled sheets and something more than either of us expected. 

His hand is on my hip. My head is on his chest. I should probably say something. Joke. Deflect. Reset. But I don’t. And neither does he.

Because sometimes silence says enough.

The Next Morning

The first thing I feel is warmth.

Not the sun, though that’s already creeping through the sheer curtains, but him. Drew. His body pressed behind mine, one heavy arm slung low around my waist, breath slow against the back of my neck.

For a second, I forget where I am. Then I shift slightly and feel the ache between my legs, and it all comes rushing back.

Candlelight. His mouth. My name on his lips like a prayer and a curse all in one.

My heart thumps louder than it should.

I carefully lift his arm and slide out of bed, grabbing the tank I wore last night off the floor and tugging it over my head, grabbing my panties, pulling them up my legs. As I pad toward the kitchen, my legs are still shaky, but my head is even worse.

What the hell was that?

I pour myself a glass of water and try not to overanalyze it. It was sex. Hot, stupidly good sex. People hook up on vacation all the time.

Doesn’t mean it has to be anything more.

I’m halfway through my glass of water when I hear footsteps behind me. Drew appears in the doorway, shirtless again, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and looking entirely too good for someone who kept me up half the night.

He leans against the counter, eyes sweeping over me in that slow, knowing way that makes my skin prickle.

“Morning,” he says, voice gravelly. “You always sneak out before I get to say something charming and inappropriate?”

I smirk over the rim of my glass. “I wasn’t sneaking. Just needed hydration.”

“Hydration, huh?” He opens a cabinet and pulls out a coffee pod. “Guess that means I still get to impress you with my elite coffee maker button-pushing skills.”

“You make coffee?”

“No. But I’m excellent at pretending I do.”

He pushes off the counter, walking past me with nothing but a lazy grin and a whole lot of smug energy. My eyes dip to his back. Then lower. I hate how good he looks half-naked. I hate that I’m already thinking about what would happen if we had a repeat of last night.

“You’re not saying anything weird,” I say. “That’s progress.”

He glances over his shoulder, that grin deepening. “Give me time, it's still early.”

The coffee machine sputters to life. I lean on the counter and watch him move around like he’s been here for weeks. Like we’re not just two strangers who collided at the edge of something neither of us planned.

We don’t talk about last night. We don’t need to.

And when he slides a fresh mug across the counter, black, no questions asked, his fingers brush mine, and the smile he gives me is quiet, unassuming, and way too easy to fall for.

For now… this is enough. But I can’t help wondering what later might bring.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

When the Hookup Changes Everything

When a One-Night Stand Feels Like More

We all love a good vacation fling. No strings. No pressure. Just heat, chemistry, and a countdown clock. But sometimes—sometimes—a hookup hits different.

Maybe it’s the eye contact. The way he says your name. The fact that you’re still thinking about it the next morning.

Not every spicy scene leads to feelings.

But the best ones? They crack something open.

That’s exactly what happens in The Beach Hook Up. Ellie and Drew don’t plan to catch feelings—but candlelight, tension, and a night of zero distractions don’t leave much room for pretending.

Hookups like that might not come with a happily-ever-after… but they change you all the same.

Why Opposites Attract Works Every Time

He’s a loud, sun-soaked surf instructor who lives for the waves and spontaneity.

She’s a quiet, introverted artist who planned this beach trip to be completely alone.

So naturally… they end up roommates.

There’s a reason the opposites attract trope hits every time. It’s not just about the differences—it’s about what those differences reveal. The tension. The bickering. The unexpected understanding underneath it all.

Ryan pushes Ellie out of her comfort zone. Ellie slows Ryan down just enough to see what he’s missing.

And somewhere between “you’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met” and “kiss me again,” everything changes.

When There’s Only One Bed…

Let’s all take a moment to appreciate the “only one bed” trope.

The awkward shuffle. The you stay on your side declaration. The accidental middle-of-the-night tangle. The slow, delicious descent from “I’m not even attracted to you” to “oh no, I’m very attracted to you.”

It’s chaos. It’s intimacy. It’s perfection.

While The Beach Hookup doesn’t open with a shared bed, don’t worry—there’s a shared space, a shared spark, and one unforgettable night when the candles come out and the wine flows.

One bed or not… someone’s waking up wanting more.

Tropes We’ll Never Get Tired Of: Forced Proximity

Ever been stuck somewhere with someone you absolutely shouldn’t want but suddenly… really do?

That’s the beauty of forced proximity.

Whether it’s a snowstorm, a last-minute booking mix-up, or being stranded together in the middle of nowhere—something shifts when two people are trapped in close quarters. The tension builds. The walls start to drop. And if you’re anything like us, you’re turning those pages faster than you can say “you take the couch.”

In this week’s story (The Beach Hookup), Ellie thinks she’s escaping to a quiet beach house to paint in peace. But then Ryan shows up—tan, shirtless, and annoyingly hot. Now? She’s stuck with him.

And you’re about to be stuck in your feelings.

When the Guy You Shouldn’t Want Becomes the Only One You Do

He’s off-limits. Trouble. Exactly the kind of man she’s been warned about.

But somehow, he’s the only one who sees her clearly.

That’s the beauty of this trope—it’s not just about the heat (though, let’s be real, there’s plenty of that). It’s about emotional chaos. The craving. The conflict. The moment when logic says run… but her body and heart say stay.

The guy she shouldn’t want is the one who makes her feel alive.

And when she finally gives in? It’s explosive. Emotional. Irreversible.

Because sometimes the worst idea is the one that changes everything.