It's kind of n awkward hug, considering his one arm is still in a cast, the brace having been discarded by his couch when he tried phasing his way out of it. That was hours ago, way before he was this drunk.

And as she pulls back and asks that question, there's that mirthless laugh again as he leads the way back into the apartment. Still sparse, but at least he has some things now. The towels he bought, that plant bulb, some dishes and a coffee table that has three cans of some sort of brandless alcohol on it. One of which is empty. Books and a whole TV set.

But yes. That laugh, and then: "I'm fine." It's the sort of tone that if he were a normal person might translate to 'I am so not fine, help me.'