That level of paternal overprotectiveness is completely unfamiliar to Ned, and yet he thinks he can understand it, as someone who constantly plays out worst case scenarios in his own head. True, his worst-case scenarios never result in him being quite so controlling over another person's life, but if he had a kid (and that's a terrifying thought in its own way), he has the sneaking suspicion that if he didn't watch himself, he might end up that exact same kind of a father. And there's something to be said for imagining a smaller, brattier version of Ginsberg. If this is the toned-down version, well...

Ned only just sees Ginsberg swerving to avoid the bench at the last possible moment, grins at it. He doesn't think of it as absent-minded so much as impassioned. Ginsberg just gets to caught up in the things he's saying that his surroundings seem less important.

"Oh. Well, I'm happy to be that kind of a bad influence," he answers, voice also dipping in volume, and there's a sparkle to his eyes when he smiles that's decidedly unwholesome. Ned wishes, wishes that he could stop in his tracks right there, grab Ginsberg and kiss him hard, dip him backwards like some kind of debonair man from a movie. But of course, that's not the way things work. Even if they weren't in public, would he have the courage for that kind of suave move? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.