Jemma Simmons was never one to write on her arms. She prided herself on her organization, her memory, and her ability to write her appointments in a planner and her notes in a notebook.

Whoever was destined to be her soulmate obviously did not share her preference for paper. Throughout elementary school, black pen lines would appear all over her arms, often crudely spelling out 'daisy' in a child's handwriting, along with marker, paint, and, once, glitter glue. In the beginning of secondary school, her soulmate began to prioritize what they thought was truly important to scribble on their arms and she endured phone numbers, lunch schedules, homework, and, on more than one occasion, a large black spot would appear on her thigh where she deduced her soulmate had colored in a hole in their jeans by drawing on their leg. For at least three weeks at the start of term for each year of secondary school, Jemma sported a class schedule on her left forearm, although a quick glance told her that her soulmate attended an American secondary school (why Americans spend 11 weeks out of school every summer and were only granted short winter and spring breaks continued to boggle her) and as such, had the same schedule every day, instead of the timetables she followed.

Going to college in America both thrilled and terrified Jemma. The prospect of potentially meeting her soulmate was exciting but she worried about how compatible she would be with such a disorganized mess.

Bits of code littered her arms throughout most of her college career, leading her to believe her soulmate was some sort of computer science student. Appointment dates and meeting times and what appeared to be due dates (although the 3am meetings were a little strange) began to materialize on her arm and Jemma spent more and more time trying to figure out who exactly her soulmate was. It wasn't until the note "Panther Pride, Sat, 8pm" was scrawled on her hand that her suspicions were confirmed her suspicions – she and her soulmate attended the same university.

Drawing diagrams was part of her education and she had created many a scientific picture of plants and animals. Out on campus later that week, she spotted an interesting variation of a Daisy and immediately wanted to sketch the specimen. After a few minutes of searching through her bag, she realized that she, the always organized Jemma Simmons, had no blank paper with her. With a resigned sigh and deciding she could just reproduce the diagram in her scientific journal later, she pulled out a pen, squatted next to the flower, and began to draw on her forearm.

Daisy Johnson was never an organized person. Her life was a mess in more ways than one and it showed. Growing up, she was bounced from foster home to foster home, with little to no structure at least. Some were better than others, and some were particularly awful, including the Jacobsons. With no paper in the house besides Chris's precious stationary, young Daisy was forced to practice spelling her name on her arm to keep from being punished at school. Her arms and legs were often subjected to this sort of thing. Foster families rarely bought her planners or notebooks and the teachers who took pity on her were few and far between. More often than not, her skin sported ink (or marker or paint or glitter glue, the one time she got her hands on it).

In middle school, she was adopted by single-father Phil Coulson and in high school, Melinda May joined their little family. And although Phil and May were great parents, providing her with plenty of planners and notebooks, old habits died hard and she kept her schedules on her arms, just in case.

Daisy never believed in the fairy tales that whatever your soulmate wrote on or decorated their skin with would appear on your own. Very few ever met their soulmate anyways, her parents one such couple. ("You can love someone who isn't your soulmate, Daisy," Phil told her one day after school, sporting a black line on his right forearm while May's was left bare. "Not many in this are lucky enough to find their soulmate, but many more have found love.") The whole soulmate thing seemed like a load of bullshit to her and she wasn't about to hold out for the kind of person who never even wrote on the back of their hand anyways.

By some miracle (and lots of recommendation letters), Daisy made it into college. She tried to get more organized, she really did, but when she constantly had to run through her notes for the same bits of code it became easier just to write them on her arms and sometimes she 'accidentally' left it there during tests. Whoever her soulmate was, she hoped they wouldn't realize where she went to school or who her professors were.

It wasn't until a drawing of a flower appeared on her arm that she really believed there might be something to the whole soulmate thing.

The flower was beautiful, perfectly illustrated down to the last detail. Daisy found herself wishing her soulmate would draw on their skin more often, so their artwork could always decorate hers.

"What's with the daisy, Daisy?" Antoine Triplett asked that night as they worked out in the gym. "When did you become such an artist?"

Daisy flushed, forcing herself to focus on the bench press while Trip spotted her. "I didn't draw it," she managed through clenched teeth, putting the bar back and sitting up, panting slightly.

Trip quirked a brow at her. "Who-"

"It doesn't matter, okay." She was reluctant to admit that she didn't know the person who drew the flower, though she desperately wanted to. And was it coincidence that they drew a daisy or did they know? How could they know?

A grin spread across her friend's face. "Was it your soulmate?"

"You know I don't believe in that shit."

"But I know you want to."

Daisy leveled him with a glare. She stood and snapped her towel at him, slapping him on the arm. "Come on, get your reps in. I want to be able to shower before Panther Pride tonight."

Jemma was not the type of person to attend campus party events. But the note on the back of her hand lent her the courage she needed to convince Fitz to join her on the crowded quad for the Pride celebration. And as she stood in the crowd, listening to some vapid music, she couldn't help but look at the backs of hands and arms of passersby, looking for the same schedule reminders or drawings of daisies that littered her own skin.

Despite her earlier denial, Daisy found herself scanning the arms of every event-goer later that night, ignoring the smug grin Trip kept shooting her. Very few people had anything besides temporary tattoos of rainbows and pride flags on their arms and those who did were not sporting the flower she had so come to love. She was tempted to scrawl a note on her arm to her soulmate but Phil's words of warning echoed back at her whenever she reached for her Sharpie ("Seeking out your soulmate will cause you more heartache than joy") and the old superstitions kept her in check. Still, she couldn't help but feel like she had lost her chance when the bands stopped playing and the speeches were over and college students began to filter out of the quad, and the identical daisy was still nowhere to be found.

It was rare for Jemma to be in the campus coffee shop so late in the morning. She prided herself on getting the proper amount of sleep and when she needed a caffeine boost, she was just fine preparing herself a cup of tea, thank you very much. But her late night at Panther Pride demanded more than just tea and biscuits and Café Shield provided just the caffeine boost she needed to catch up on her assignments. The daisy she had drawn the day before persisted on her forearm, along with the faded reminder of "Panther Pride, Sat, 8pm" on the back of her hand. After placing her order with the barista, she fumbled with her books while waiting for her drink to be ready.

"One flat white for Jemma," a barista called out, placing a paper cup on the counter. Her right hand full, Jemma reached out with her left, not hearing the barista's sharp intake of breath as her hand closed around the cup.

"Thank you," she said pleasantly, too focused on keeping everything balanced to notice the girl across the counter who had suddenly frozen, eyes flicking quickly from her arm to her face and back to her arm again.

Daisy pulled up the sleeve of her uniform to make a quick comparison but knew without looking. Her faded handwriting had been on the back of the other girl's (Jemma's) hand and the detailed daisy had been on her arm. They would be exactly the same as the ink that stained her own left arm, down to the miniscule and perfect details of the flower. Her breath caught as the girl (Jemma, what a beautiful name, Jemma) walked from the counter, sitting down at one of the last empty tables in the crowded café.

"Trip," she hissed, moving over to the barista working the register and ignoring the exasperated look her supervisor Mack threw her way. "Trip, it's her."

"One second, Daisy." Trip didn't even glance towards her. "That's one black coffee and a latte, will that be all?"

The customer looked up at the menu, thinking something over. "How much are the muffins again, mate?" Daisy gave him a glare that could cut steel and snatched two cups up, scrawling the order on them along with the customer's name.

"You know perfectly well how much they are, Hunter," she snapped at the customer, who gave her a sheepish look.

"C'mon, Daisy, where are your manners?" the Brit shot back, handing Trip some cash. "Bob's told me your on the outs with your manager, don't want to get fired, do you?"

"Bobbi, take care of this unruly customer, will you?" Daisy handed the cups over to the blonde manning the espresso machines, who winked at her before she began to make Hunter's order. Daisy grabbed Trip by the apron and pulled him into the kitchen, Bobbi laughing after her.

"What's going on, girl?" Trip asked as the door swing shut behind her, muffling the noise from outside.

"I found her."

"Found who?"

"My soulmate." She pushed open the door slightly, pointing to the girl sitting in the corner booth, who sipped her flat white slowly while her tablemate chatted animatedly at her.

Trip blinked at her before slowly breaking into a grin, reaching out to clasp her shoulder. "I think you know what you need to do." He slid a sharpie from behind his ear, handing it to her.

Daisy looked between him and the pen. "But, my dad said that won't work."

"It's all old superstition, Daisy. Trust me, Jemma's going to love you."

She stopped short. "Wait, Jemma- you know her?"

Trip's grin widened. "Bobbi and I had a class with her last semester. She's great." He pushed through the door, leaving her speechless in the kitchen, holding a Sharpie and looking down at her hand.

Jemma felt something tug at her skin and looked down in time to see words painting themselves across the back of her hand, over the faded reminder of "Panther Pride."

hey. enjoying the flat white?

She looked around frantically, but the coffee shop was crowded and no one she saw was writing on the back of their hand. She grabbed the pen from Fitz's hand, who gave an indignant "hey!" and scrawled back quickly, I am. Who are you?

A yell of "flat white for Jemma," rang out before her soulmate could response and she glanced up to see the same female barista from before, smiling at her mischievously. Jemma walked over to the counter shakily, narrowing her eyes in confusion as the barista put the drink down and began to roll up her sleeve.

She never expected to see a daisy, the same one that was inked on her own skin, echoed on the barista's.

She never expected to look up and see a watery, wary smile on the woman's beautiful face, a question in her eyes.

Laughing out a grin, Jemma reached out and took the woman's hand, tracing her fingers over her daisy's twin.

"I'm Jemma," she breathed, barely able to believe they had met.

"Hi, Jemma. I'm Daisy." The barista (Daisy) took a second to compose herself. "I've waited a long time to meet you."

Later that night, they talked over dinner and drinks and a late night walk, laughing and grinning as they regaled stories of their pasts.

"So that's why I had 'daisy' written all over my arm as a child," Jemma found herself saying, torn between horror and laughter, as she and Daisy stopped in front of her house, Jemma's porch light casting a warm glow over them.

"I can't believe you never wrote on yourself. Not even in middle school. You are far to organized to be real, Jemma Simmons."

"But I am real." Jemma reached out, picking up Daisy's hand in her own.

Daisy found herself smiling broadly, squeezing Jemma's hand and leaning in. "So you are, Jemma Simmons. So you are." She sealed her words with a kiss and her soulmate took her breath away.

Years later, Daisy sat at her kitchen table, laptop propped open in front of her. Her girlfriend sat across from her, taking careful notes in a journal under a sketch of a microbe. A slight pulling at her skin took her attention off the screen in front of her and she watched as ink spilled across her arm.

Will you marry me?

She looked up. Jemma kneeled on the floor, ring held out before her.

Tears welled in Daisy's eyes. Never had she imagined feeling this much love, this much happiness as she gasped out, "Yes."