The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 182 - 183: Maybe

Chapter 182: Chapter 183: Maybe

"I thought I’d never see you again," she whispered.

"Not like this."

The wind beyond the chamber windows shifted—dry and warm, smelling faintly of burnt copper and ancient dust. The walls of the airship trembled faintly with each passing draft, like even the steel skin of the vessel was holding its breath.

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warmer than he expected. Not the warmth of heat, but of life.

"I counted the days. Every one of them."

His voice barely passed the space between them, but it hit her like thunder under bone.

She blinked. Her lashes heavy with unshed emotion. Her face—so often cold, poised, weaponized—now looked soft. Almost young again. Not the Empress of an empire. Just Eli. The girl who used to race him barefoot across the dark forest.

A pause followed. But not just silence.

The kind of pause that lovers share. A space neither dared to fill too quickly, as if words might ruin the shape of what was hanging in the air between them.

"I dreamed of you," she said at last. "Even when I hated you..... Especially when I hated you."

There was a tremble in her throat. She looked away from him, suddenly tense. As if regret had teeth and had just bitten her shoulder.

She closed her eyes. Let her head rest against his shoulder. Slowly. Almost ashamed to need it.

He didn’t flinch.

His chin hovered just above her temple, breath brushing her scalp. Then he leaned in. Forehead to forehead. Their skin barely touched—but it was enough to turn the world outside to dust. Their breaths mingled. The same rhythm, the same heat. A rhythm that neither of them controlled anymore.

His fingers flexed once against the curve of her waist. Not possession. Just presence. A reminder.

"Eli," he whispered.

"...Don’t," she said quickly.

Her voice was sharp. But her body didn’t move.

Atlas froze. Not from fear. From restraint. From knowing how fragile a heart can be once it’s been cracked and reheated too many times.

"I wasn’t going to kiss you," he lied.

"...You always were a terrible liar," she breathed.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. But it didn’t last. Emotion swelled too close to the surface. And the tide of memory returned.

He pulled back slightly. Not all the way. But enough to see her eyes—still storm-colored, still unreadable, still his undoing.

His hands didn’t leave her waist.

"We still have to talk peace," she said. Her tone cooled again. That Empress steel, returning. She wrapped herself in it like armor. As if love was a wound and duty the only salve.

He nodded. But a glint remained in his eyes. Not mischief. Not challenge. Something softer. Something that whispered of missed time, and too many unspoken words.

"Then stay," he said. "Tonight. One night. Let the war sleep."

A silence bloomed between them again. This one heavier. Charged.

"That’s not how this works," she replied, her tone careful.

"I know," he said. "But I had to ask."

He didn’t look away. He didn’t break eye contact. Because he needed her to see that this wasn’t a ploy. That there was no strategy here.

Just him.

A long, devastating pause.

"...Maybe," she said at last. "Maybe I will."

He blinked. Slowly.

"Maybe?"

She turned her face slightly, enough that her lips hovered near his neck.

"Just one night," she repeated. "Not for peace. Not for strategy. For the woman who misses you. For the man I still love."

They didn’t speak after that.

The metal walls around them hummed faintly from the enchantments fueling the aircraft. Magic currents ran like veins under the floors, whispering against the soles of their boots.

Atlas looked down at her arm.

The new one.

Silver, sleek, elegant in a terrible way. A miracle of metal and magic. But it wasn’t hers. Not the one he remembered holding.

He reached for it, gently. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, tracing the edge where living flesh met enchanted alloy. It pulsed faintly beneath his hand.

"I promised... I would heal your arm..." Atlas whispered.

Guilt. Quiet. It pressed into the room like fog.

Because he knew what she’d done. Knew what Veil had told him—that the price of his revival, the mass required to hold his heart together, to stabilize him... it hadn’t just been stolen from corpses. A part of her—her arm—had been sacrificed.

A deterrent offering. A holy mutilation for a sinner’s resurrection.

Eli said nothing.

Instead, she placed her metal hand—firm, cold, unnervingly warm at the center—against his chest. Right over his heart.

She smiled.

Not triumph. Not sorrow.

Something worse.

Comfort.

"You owe me a hand," she said softly. "And a heart. What will you do, Atlas? How will you repay me?"

Her words weren’t just rhetorical. Not with that smile. Not with the way her fingers remained there, as if memorizing the beat beneath.

Atlas exhaled.

His breath trembled. A little.

He took her chin, careful not to break the moment. Careful not to rush. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, featherlight.

Her eyes closed.

Not out of duty.

But in surrender.

She leaned into him—just a fraction—and that was all the invitation he needed.

He kissed her.

Not like a prince. Not like a spy. Not like a soldier returning from hell.

He kissed her like a man who had died once, and only now remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Her lips were soft. Warmer than they had any right to be. The taste of her—the faint trace of cinnamon, of wine, of long nights and longer regrets—hit his tongue and undid something in him.

She didn’t pull away.

She kissed him back.

Desperate.

Tender.

Certain.

Their mouths moved slowly, like time wasn’t real anymore. Like the war outside didn’t exist. Like the betrayal, the blood, the broken kingdoms—all of it had paused just for this moment.

Her hands slid up his back, metal and flesh, finding the scars beneath his collar. He winced—but not from pain.

From memory.

Their bodies pressed together. Not for lust. For closeness. For anchoring. As if they’d both been drifting for too long, and this was the one place they could breathe.

But even as their hearts reached for each other, something inside both of them tensed.

Because they knew.

One night could never be enough.

One night wouldn’t fix what was broken.

But sometimes, the body takes what it can get. And the heart lies, just long enough, to let it happen.