His head is tilted, assessing, sizing her up as he listens. This is going to be fun: learning how the other one ticks, and he appreciates the straightforward information, the guidance. This is how they can communicate, make it best for both of them. He's making mental note as intently as if he's studying for an exam (and there is, in fact, going to be a practical test quite shortly).

But, then, Stephen hesitates. It would be empty posturing to pretend he's more suave than he is and that this isn't a problem whatsoever, but there's something to Gwenaëlle Baudin which has always made it astoundingly easy to bare his throat to her (and most likely that's a large part of the reason they're here today), and so:

"You, mostly," is a wry answer. Then, reluctantly admitting, "I don't even know what I like anymore. I haven't, since the crash— It's been a while. So, just. Setting the context accordingly. I'm going to be re-learning this.

"But I can work with that."

Standing there with Gwenaëlle's knees locked around him and his hands on her, he expects the instinctive sting of embarrassment at having set it out there and made himself vulnerable, here are my wounds and here is how you can hurt me; but it doesn't come.